


i'll take with me the memories

by badboy_fangirl



Category: Walking Dead RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had made it. Both fictionally and non-fictionally. On the show and in show business. And now? Now, she's just another dead girl.  *[This is my therapy. I will not discuss how I swore I'd never write RPF again.]*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is stuff I've read on the internet. Anything you don't is MADE UP.
> 
> Title lifted from Boys II Men's "It's So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday." 
> 
> Also:  
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily_zpsa6237c1e.jpg.html)
> 
> And:  
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily2_zpsd3521666.jpg.html)
> 
> And two more, just to be clear:  
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Daryls%20pretty%20cool_zps8cmc6tta.gif.html)[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Beths%20cooler_zpspt4hbm8k.gif.html)

"Em."

"Em. Seriously."

"Em! C'mon!"

She doesn't lift her head as she's walking past. She keeps it down and all but runs for her trailer. "I can't talk right now!" she shouts.

What she means is, _if she talks, she'll cry._ There's actually a good chance she'll cry even if she doesn't talk. What she means is, she can't talk to _him_ right now.

Because of all the talking they've done before. And how they had crafted these ideas of where this was going and what they might get to play out, and how everyone knows you should never do that on a show where every week could be your last, but still.

She made it, not to quote Beth Greene or anything. She survived season two when two regulars were dead before the season finale and two guest stars who'd had as many lines as her got eaten in the last episode. She survived season three, when more series regulars died left and right and she read each script with one eye shut because if anyone was going to get eaten in the prison in the dark, it was Beth.

Then she survived season four. 

Her character was written off in a very non-specific _not dead_ way. 

She had _made_ it. Both fictionally and non-fictionally. On the show and in show business. And now? Now, she's just another dead girl.

And if Norman Reedus tries to make her feel better about it, she will fucking kill him.

 

 

She makes it to her car without getting cornered by anyone, though she feels all of their angst, both for her, and for themselves. They don't have to say it; she already knows. She loves them, they love her. This is going to hurt like hell.

She needs to call her subletter in New York and tell them to start looking for a new place. She needs to decide if she's gonna sub-lease her condo here, or just sell it altogether. She needs to prepare herself for the death of Beth Greene.

(She cries the whole way home.)

By the time she's wedging her key into the lock at her house, she's got it under control. Well, her tears have subsided, anyway. She's not sure if she'll have control, ever again. It feels like since this morning the world has spun dangerously off its axis and the trajectory is somewhere north of complete shit-ville. 

She hates to even acknowledge how blindsided she feels by this, but she completely _is_. Completely mind-fucked. There just wasn't anything that foreshadowed this.

(Or if there was, she was completely oblivious to it. Which made her stupid, which made it worse.)

She sets her bag down on the coffee table. Looking around her small-ish apartment, she imagines going back to New York. That's the only thing to do. She doesn't want to go to L.A., so New York is the place to go. If she wants to keep making it, if she wants to find a way to survive losing the best job she's ever had.

For one wild moment, she wonders if _The Vampire Diaries_ might be looking for a new character. Then she wouldn't have to leave Georgia. That's how Lauren got this job, just being in the right place at the right time.

She needs to call her manager, and yet, she just can't bring herself to do it.

She throws herself down on the sofa and sobs. All the tears she thought were gone renew themselves with the force of a mack truck.

(She cries until she falls asleep.)

 

 

A distant tapping rouses her. She wakes, disoriented, face down on the sofa and unsure of how she got there. She sits up and glances at the clock which tells her it's 11:18. She looks towards the window, and sees it's dark outside, so it's 11:18PM. She didn't somehow sleep right on through the whole thing and miss her call sheet time for the following morning. 

And someone is knocking on her door. 

She gets to her feet and makes her way over to look through the peephole.

It's not surprising, but it's not something she wants to deal with either. She could just ignore him, but she feels guilty at just the thought of it.

Then, through the door comes, "I can hear you moving around in there, you know. You can ignore _eight_ phone calls, but can you really turn away a friend on your doorstep?"

Resting her forehead against the cool wood, she wishes she could. She wishes she didn't have years of knowledge of this man, and a turtle on her window ledge that reminded her every day of his loyalty and depth of caring. More than anything, she wishes they'd never stayed up late drinking one night envisioning what might happen when Daryl and Beth were reunited.

Because none of it would happen now. And, the truth is, Emily feels as broken-hearted about that as any actual failed relationship in her life. She knows it's irrational, but the angst still clogs at the back of her throat, and her fingers tremble as she finally reaches for the door handle.

"Oh, thank God," he mutters, when she pulls the door open a crack. "I was starting to think..." he cuts himself off and she just shakes her head, pursing her lips to catch a sob that wells up in her chest. "Let me in?" he asks, and it's his most gentle voice, the part of him that sounds nothing like Daryl Dixon, even if all the sweet qualities of Norman are reflected ten-fold in the fictional character he's so carefully created.

Emily steps back, widening the door just enough for him to slip inside.

It's not the first time he's been to her apartment, but it is the first time he's been there when it was just the two of them; the awkwardness of it all feels enormous as their eyes meet.

Then his arm comes up and swings around her, his elbow catching the back of her neck to tug her in tight to his chest. His lips get buried in her hair and the words, "'M sorry," get mumbled straight into her heart.

She doesn't cry now, though; there is some sort of revitalizing strength flowing into her from him. She wraps her arms around his waist and holds on to him with everything she's got. This is all kinds of wrong, but she doesn't care.

Tonight, she's going to let her friend make her feel better, even if that means lurching over that shadowy line they've always toed so painstakingly.

They just stand there for a long time, in each other's arms. Not moving, not doing anything except letting their breathing sync up. There has always been something comforting about Norman's presence, and his willingness to be the crying shoulder for anyone in their circle of friends and co-workers has been a balm many times before.

None of this falls outside the parameters he established early on; but to pretend it's completely innocent is rather foolish. Emily's had enough relationships to know the difference between a man who wants to take care of you because you're like a kid sister to them and one who might like to lay you out in their bed and comfort you in a more primal way.

And just because she has a boyfriend and he has a girlfriend doesn't mean that the knowledge between them is screened away even though they haven't acted on it. If anything, Emily's feelings for Norman have grown because of the fact that nothing hinky has ever gone down between them. She's been available on and off during the time she's known him, but he's never been inappropriate.

You know, except for flirting with her like mad and kissing her cheek when fifteen cameras are on them, or complimenting her on talk shows where it's "safe" to do so.

Okay, so the only thing he's never done is ask her to go to bed with him when he has no intentions of taking it any further than that. And she knows that's because he's a decent person, and he knows she's a decent person, and that in general, neither of them would ever do anything like that.

(Except, maybe she would.)

(No, she wouldn't.)

(Probably.)

It's that last, stray, contradictory thought that she has long avoided that has her extricating herself from his embrace. When she turns to lead him towards the sofa, he snags her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. 

It's gonna take a whole lotta something to keep her on the straight and narrow tonight. If she can get him out of her apartment without totally fucking up her life, she can write songs all night long to get her conflicting emotions out.

"It's not right, Em," he says as they settle on the sofa. She's careful to squeeze herself into one corner so that they have to full-on face each other, and that forces him to drop her hand.

(He means how Beth's gonna die because of an accidental gunshot wound to the head, not what's happening right here, right now.)

She just shakes her head at him. "What am I supposed to say?" she asks. "I've got to finish filming this episode before I can even think about that episode. I'm not Melissa, or Scott. I can't go in there and beg for something based on all my years of work."

"I'll go," he says, and just the way it comes out of his mouth, she knows that's his whole purpose in seeking her out. He wants her to sanction it, or something.

"Norman, no. I can't..." She shakes her head again, and blinks her eyes rapidly when the tears suddenly descend. "I can't have this job knowing someone--you, or anyone--did that. It's not right, it's not anything I could be proud of. And there's no guarantee that would change anything. Mr. Gimple said he's had this planned since last season, so--"

"Bullshit," Norman mutters, and she finally looks at him, like _really_ looks at him. He's not just concerned for her; he's agitated. No, he's pissed. Upset to the extent that she is, but with a layer of machismo coating the top. "I don't believe that for a second. It's all the crazies who--"

Emily puts her finger against his lips. "No. Don't even. It can't-- _I_ can't believe that. We have to-- _you_ have to believe it's what serves the story, or--"

He grabs her wrist, yanking her hand away from his face. "Or what?" he snarls, the most Daryl-like she's probably ever seen him off-camera. "Or I'll just start phoning it in. Maybe I should, and then maybe they'll kill me off and I won't have to be here without--"

"Norman!"

He stops then, and his chest heaves, and all she can think of is those days of rehearsal before they filmed _Still_ and whatever she'd ever thought of him and felt about him had blossomed into something bigger and more beautiful than she could have ever dreamed. 

"It doesn't matter," she says now, a sense of calm falling over her suddenly. "They can't take away what already happened. And you, you will still have so much to do, so that Daryl can honor Beth. It can be..." She wipes at the tears on her cheeks with her free hand. "It could end up being some of your best work."

His fingers around her wrist tighten spasmodically, and the expression on his face does something odd to her breathing.

(Like makes her not take any oxygen into her lungs, at all.)

It's right there, that line. And their toes are hovering just the far side of it.

He whispers her name, _Emily_ , not the short version he's taken to calling her most of the time that they've been acquainted. Something poignant and terrifying settles in his eyes, so she tugs her arm free of his grasp, but there's nowhere to go. This corner of her couch is suddenly small and crowded with this man, and her feelings, and his feelings, and she wants very much to escape with everything still intact.

(Or, just give in and see if it's everything she's never let herself fully imagine.)

When he starts talking, his tone is barely above the first whisper of her name, fervent, sending chills across her flesh. "I had this idea, you know, that I'd get this script, or maybe the one after this, and there would be a kiss between Daryl and Beth. And then it would be out of my hands, you know. It would be my fucking job to...I'd have to. And I could just do it, and we'd need 50 takes, and maybe then I wouldn't want to..."

Emily feels like her eyes must be wide enough with surprise to take in everything that's happening, but her vision seems to narrow to the small space between them as it shrinks even more. She blinks in terror that either he will kiss her or he won't, and she is no longer sure that either option won't kill her in some way.

She presses her free hand to his shoulder, but then her fingers dig down, so she can see how that might be confusing as to what she wants. He hesitates, but only for a split second, and then his lips brush hers.

Tenderly. _So tender._ She gasps because she doesn't know what she expected, but it wasn't that, and then one of his hands is gripping the back of her neck, and his tongue is deep inside her mouth, and _that_ , that is what she was expecting. And it's gut-wrenchingly perfect, and arousing, and there is no longer space between them at all.

She is in his arms, and across his lap, and Beth Greene is dying somewhere, but Emily Kinney is very much alive.

More alive than she's ever been.

 

 

They kiss for a very long time. He is hard beneath her, and his hands are against her lower back, but not demanding in anyway. She is wet for him, she is all the things a woman should be for a man like Norman, except, you know, _actually his girlfriend_ , and so despite the pleasure singing through her veins, she can't do it.

She wants to, desperately. Wants to be a girl not from Nebraska who even after years of living in the big city still can't shake those small town morals. 

But even more, she wants what she feels, and what zings back at her from him, to be untainted. The reality is, she could love him, with all that she is, and that would not be satisfied even now with a pity fuck for the demise of Beth Greene.

She'll end up with regrets, and that's the last thing she wants. 

She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, not too hard, but with enough sharpness that he hisses. Then she pulls back, and brushes Daryl's hair out of Norman's eyes. "We can't do this," she says softly.

His hips surge a bit, his body starting its own argument even as he nods his head in agreement.

She leans her forehead to his, and takes a deep, much needed breath. "I'm not saying I don't want to," she adds.

He snorts a short laugh. "Yeah, I got that." She slides off of him gently, keeping her gaze averted as he reaches down to adjust his jeans. "I didn't come here to..."

"No, I know," she says quickly, glancing at him.

He puts his hand over hers on the sofa cushion between them. "Sometimes I can be pretty slow, Em. I just..."

"Don't," she says, shaking her head. "It is what it is. You're special to me, I don't want to ruin it."

He blows out a breath and his fingers clench around hers. "I don't know if I can do this. Say goodbye. To either Beth or you."

Emily stands up, strangely empowered by all that has happened in the last twenty minutes. "You have to find a way. We both do."

He watches her with nothing short of adoration on his face, and she suddenly realizes just what it means to her to have him, in any fashion, in her life. "Beth would have been the best thing that ever happened to Daryl," he says, the ache in his voice a metaphorical fist around her heart.

"She still can be," she says.

(He hugs her tight before he leaves, but he _does_ leave.)

(She sleeps all of two hours that night. She writes three songs, though, so it's not a total loss.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this story has gotten away from me...in that it's ended up being way longer than I originally planned, so there has been a long waiting time for all of you. For that I am sorry; I do hope the wait is worth it! 
> 
> And you should probably watch both of these videos if you haven't already, if you want to understand what they're talking about.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xPXEOfrmFA  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kK5Ato3QSk

Her panties are around her ankles and the heat of him is burning up the backside of her from calf muscles to shoulder blades when the Freudian slip from earlier that day rings in her ears.

Her own words _he'll wear you out_ and the horrific embarrassment in front of a large audience that followed seem pretty tame now as she feels one of his hands between her legs while the other cups her face to turn her head towards him. _If they only knew._ But it's not like she knew, eight hours ago when she said _that_ , they'd be here, doing _this_.

And, they happen to be doing it very strangely, in the semi-dark of his house, with only the shadow of streetlights for guidance. She's naked and so is he; he's about to put himself inside her and she's not even looking at him, but that's okay because she's about to die from the need anyway.

Because. _The need._ It's its own thing. It has consumed her. It has consumed him. And as he kisses her, she wraps an arm awkwardly around his neck to anchor herself to him. He presses himself between her butt cheeks, and she lifts herself up on her tiptoes in an effort to help get him where they both want him. Then their lips slip apart, and he's muttering, "Good god, Em," and she's not sure what he means, except, _yes! to everything_ , and then he finds his way, and fills her up just like she's wanted him too, since…forever. She can't remember when she didn't want him, and now it doesn't matter. Because she's free, and he's free, and they are free together, and… _oh, holy, holy, holy shit_ , he's moving inside her and one hand flattens over her stomach, holding her to him while the other braces them against the wall just inside the door of his house.

She finally stops thinking, because all she can do is _feel_. It explodes within her, hot and sharp and bright. Norman Reedus, and everything that this is between them. 

It has been a long time coming, and wonderfully, it is worth the wait.

 

 

She had found peace in the turn of events. It hadn't been easy, but things had gone so smoothly it had been hard to believe it wasn't meant to be. Her subletter in New York had been ready to leave, and was afraid to tell her, so when she'd called him to let him know she was coming home, he'd been relieved. She had found a buyer for her Atlanta condo within two weeks of it going on the market. And even though she was technically "let go" from _The Walking Dead_ , she was still on the payroll for conventions and special appearances, because they were trying to act with a certain amount of secrecy regarding Beth's demise.

She wasn't particularly concerned about not revealing anything as she learned the avoidance dance that came with Q&As a long time ago, but she wouldn't outright confirm that she wasn't on the show anymore because she was contractually obligated not to.

She realizes now why it was meant to be; there were too many things that had come into focus, that had worked out perfectly. Life closed a door and opened a window, all philosophical fortune-cookie bits of wisdom be damned. Who knows if she'd ever have understood it, without the distance, without the heartache of it all.

But in the six weeks between filming her last episode and then returning for the Walker Stalker Con in Atlanta, some other things had become phenomenally clear for her. She'd stood on an empty street in Atlanta having blood reapplied to her face while she watched Norman crying in the distance. He sat on an apple crate, bawling, getting it all out--in preparation for the moment that Daryl would carry Beth's lifeless body out of the hospital. The week before she'd had him in her arms, in her apartment, with the threat of a life-altering mistake to be made, but it's that moment in the alley, when he doesn't even know she's watching him that she stops the _what ifs_ and _could have been_ games with herself.

It had formed there, in her heart and mind, but it had been the distance and absence that solidified it--what she feels, what he means to her. And maybe this is all it will ever be, but they are at least free and clear right now. She doesn't plan on making any declarations, because despite the depth of emotion between them, she can't imagine anything that would send him running quicker than an _I love you_.

She remembers the early days of Cecelia, though at the time, she ignored how it bothered her when he slipped in little details of his life in their conversations. He never complained, but he was quick to affirm the casual nature of it. 

Now, he tosses her on to his bed, and soft grumbling laughter comes out of him as he lands next to her. "Watch me wear you out," he murmurs, his lips finding her throat. They still haven't turned on a light.

"Oh, god," she mumbles in embarrassment. "I knew Steven would tell you I said that."

His tongue is doing some kind of crazy dance across her collarbone and down the slope of her breast. "He fucking _texted_ me. I'm in the middle of some stupid-ass question about _will Daryl and Beth ever get together?_ and he's texting me about how you're getting dirty in front of the crowd."

"I didn't mean it the way it came out," she moans, still embarrassed, even as his lips are bypassing her navel.

He laughs again. "It was a prophecy, baby. And I'm making damn sure it comes true."

She whimpers in anticipation as he slings one of her thighs over his shoulder, but then she puts her hand against the opposite shoulder. "Wait," she breathes, and his head jerks up. The muted light coming through the window bounces off his eyes briefly, but then his face is not quite perceptible, though she can feel his breath against her. She is tense with anticipation, but also suddenly curious about all the day's events that led to this moment. " _You_ texted _me_ during the concert. That was during your Q &A?"

He tips his head and his hair tickles the inside of her leg. His hand presses just below that to spread her wide. "I texted you when Steven texted me that you broke up with what's-his-name." She hears and feels him blowing a steady stream of air against her clitoris. She arches up involuntarily, another whimpering moan escaping her throat. "The dirty stuff was just a bonus."

"Norman…" she says, her voice as weak and airy as it should be in a situation like this.

"Shhhhh," he murmurs, his lips up against her, so the vibration zings right through her. Her hips jump, and his hands move to grip them, holding her in place. "Just let me…" and then his tongue takes a big swipe out of her, and she shuts up.

(Or at least, she stops saying words.)

 

 

When she sees him for the first time at Walker Stalker, he's got a drink in his hand and is listening intently to something Andy's saying. She wants, with everything inside her, to run and jump into his arms; she refrains because even though she'd seen Steven right after her show, and he'd casually mentioned that Norman had broken up with his girlfriend, she still feels shy. 

They've kept in contact, lots of texting, and the occasional phone call, but still. Seeing him in person is different, _feels_ different. 

And she didn't tell him she'd broken up with her boyfriend anymore than he'd mentioned that he is now single, and she knows that means _something_ , but just what frightens her a little.

More than anything, she has missed all her friends, and her chest feels tight for many reasons, not just because of Norman.

So, when she approaches them, she goes for Andy first. He hugs her tight, lifting her off the ground in his enthusiasm, but then he lets her go and she turns to face Norman.

As soon as their eyes meet, she knows she's gonna sleep with him.

(The sooner, the better.)

 

 

They grab dinner, the whole big group of them, Emily, Norman, Andy, his wife, Steven, Lauren, and Melissa. It's so good to be among them again, that she very quickly loses any nervousness she felt. She slips right back into how it had been, and it's like she never left.

Except that Norman puts his hand on her leg under the table. It's not weird or creepy, it's just this moment of connection, and when she looks up at him to solidify the connection, she also lays her hand on top of his. He gives her a little nod.

It means nothing, and everything at the same time. When it's time to go home--or rather, when she ought to be walking back to her hotel, he invites her to share a cab with him. If their friends sense anything odd about it, none of them say anything, and it's not until she's lying in his bed after a third orgasm, that she remembers Steven's face being the last thing she saw as she slid into the taxi. He had practically been a real live emoticon with two thumbs-up for eyeballs. 

(It makes her smile, even as it suddenly clicks things into place for her.)

She turns her head because Norman's not lying next to her, he's standing just outside the sliding glass door of his bedroom, quietly smoking a cigarette. She sits up and finds the switch on his bedside lamp. He glances over at her as she's pulling the sheet up around her body to shield herself. "Steven. This is all because of Steven?"

Norman's eyes crinkle a bit, and then he stubs out his cigarette against the door frame. "He guessed I had a thing for you a long time ago. Decided it was his mission to, you know, get it done. I don't think he would have been so gung-ho, if you, hadn't, you know, said what you said. Guess he thought that meant you had a thing for me, too."

She clutches the sheet to her breasts, even as he lounges against the doorjamb buck naked. There are some things about Norman that are conflicting; he tends to be very shy and reserved in public, but here, with her, there hadn't been a moment's hesitation. In addition, he couldn't be less concerned about her gaze running the length of his body. Even though she knows she ought to be able to look her fill, considering that he's had various of his body parts inside hers, she still feels like she's stealing covert glances at him.

As if he's not hers, but just on loan for the weekend.

Which is fairly accurate, as she lives in New York, and he lives in Atlanta, and she has to be back home on Monday to shoot a music video for her new single.

He saunters toward the bed, reaches down and snags the sheet loose from her hands. " _Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match..._ " he sings softly, even as his eyes drift down her body. His lips curve up into a would-be smile, but instead reminds her of something primal and wild. 

(Maybe there's a little Daryl Dixon in there tonight.)

Emily leans back slightly against the pillows and tries not to curl inward, which is her first instinct. His fingers touch down on her abdomen, and then skim the length of her thigh as he examines her. When he lifts his gaze back to hers he's still humming slightly. Then he arches an eyebrow. "I can _feel_ you thinking. Are you freaking out?"

She wants to turn the tables on him, deflect in some way, but his face is open, his adoration is clear. It is entirely possible that she's the one over thinking everything, for no reason whatsoever.

(Except maybe she's head over heels in love, and this is just scratching that itch for him.)

She puts her hand over his as it starts a downward slide towards the apex of her thighs. "I just..." The air escapes her in a gasp anyway because he doesn't stop his movements, but instead pulls her fingers beneath his so that they are both touching her intimately. "I just," she tries again, speaking even as her hips shift upward to accommodate their joined hands. "Don't w-want this to ruin anything between u-us. I mean... _oh, god, Norman_..." Their fingers move inside her gently, but then he crooks his finger over hers and the sensation is incredible. There's another thought in there about their friends (Steven) involved somewhat, too, but there is no way to get to that thought in her brain much less say it aloud.

He watches her face fervently, and the way his eyes darken puts her right on the edge. It won't take much more movement from their hands to send her flying. "Come," he murmurs. Their fingers thrust home firmly and his thumb presses down on her clitoris, and she's gone again, not sure what she was even saying before that moment of white hotness.

Then he leans close, his lips against her cheek, his beard tickling her skin before drifting to her ear. He says in a tone one could only describe as as a sex voice, "How could it get bad? This is more than my wildest fucking fantasies, Em." His gaze is intense, unrelenting even as he kneels between her legs. He reaches towards the head of the bed. He pulls the drawer open on his bedside table to fish out another condom and grabs one of the pillows to slide up under her ass. Then his fingers lead the way, his touch preparatory and questing, but he never looks away from her eyes as he situates her body. Then he tears open the condom packet, rolls it up, and pushes himself inside her again.

Somewhere in the middle of the supreme turn on it is to see him find his own release, Emily feels grateful. From the sounds of things this isn't just her; she isn't having some one-time, otherworldly experience that he enjoys all the time. But all the same, when his body collapses on top of hers, they don't exchange any more words.

(She's not expecting a declaration. God knows she hadn't come down here for this to begin with.)

(Except, maybe she had. This, plus a whole helluva lot more.)

He falls to sleep, and she lies next to him, satisfied and worried at the same time.

 

 

In the cab, Norman can hear Emily breathing, but he thinks that's because he's like a fucking sonar radio where she's concerned. Ever since she'd turned up in the convention hall, he'd been acutely aware of her every movement, every shift of her eyes, and now, she doesn't say a word. She just sits next to him in the back of a cab that's taking them to his house.

He's had a few drinks, sure, but he's far from drunk, and she hadn't had any alcohol at all. A diet Coke and a salad for dinner while he wolfed down a hamburger and fries, mostly because it gave him something to do with his hands.

(Because, _fucking a_ , the only place his hands want to be is all over her.)

It hadn't helped, because the conversation between all of them went on long after the food was gone, and then he'd ended up grabbing her leg with his hand. At the soft, responding touch of her fingers over his knuckles, though, he felt something leak away; the fear that she was immune to the tension humming through him trickled out of him.

Still, the relative silence in the cab starts to unnerve him. He glances at her, just as she's glancing at him, and when their eyes meet the self-restraint he enforced upon himself all evening dissipates. His body reacts and he feels like a 15-year-old at a high school dance, but before he can attempt to make sure she doesn't notice, she lifts a hand and slides it across his shoulder. Her fingers tuck in behind his neck and she pulls his mouth to hers. It's sweet and soft, and he knows they have an audience of one with the cabbie, but it breaks the ice. 

He doesn't need words when he can kiss her; he keeps it PG for now, but by the way her breathing picks up and the little gasp she gives, it's not giving her PG feelings. 

(Which is pretty fucking necessary considering he's already in NC-17 territory. With his pants still on.)

They stop kissing when the cab rolls to a stop in front of his house. Emily giggles, just a soft little sound in the back of her throat.

(If he could get any harder, he just did. _Good God_.)

"I got it," she says, leaning forward to pay the cabbie, which makes him feel like a total tool, but at the same time relieves him of having to complete thought processes like _finding his wallet_ and _counting out money_. 

"Thanks, babe," he murmurs as they slide out on his side of the cab.

They make their way up the sidewalk, and Norman takes a deep, calming breath. He can do this. He can be cool. He can not jump on her like a cat a heat, but let the slow burn continue to build until they're ready to set his bed on fire. 

The alcove that hides his doorway stretches out a few feet, so as they get up the path to the door, they are blocked from the view of the street. He fumbles in his pocket for his keys, and when he looks up, Emily is right there, having turned to face him as she climbed the three stone steps that lead to the alcove. It puts her eye-level with him, and he gives her a small smile. She drops her purse and throws her arms around his neck, and that's the end of that.

In two seconds flat, he's got her pressed against the door, and he's swallowing every sound she makes, from desperate moans to encouraging _hmmmmm_ s. He runs his tongue across her bottom lip and gives it a little love bite before opening his mouth wide over hers.

There is a deep beat inside of him, the primitive drum of his heart, no doubt, that drives him to consume every part of her. He has wanted to for so long, probably from the first moment he ever saw her when she would never have looked twice at him, for good reason.

Emily is beautiful and ethereal, which outwardly speaking, is generally his type (blame it on the modelling), but inwardly, she radiates. She amazes him, and humbles him, and he can't from any logical standpoint figure out how she's here with him.

His hands are on her ass, and across her bared belly (something that's been tormenting him _all damn day_ ), and up under her shirt, squeezing her breasts, all in the space of a few seconds, as though she might disappear at any moment. Her arms remain locked around his neck, but that's because she's holding on.

She yanks her mouth from his and whispers, "We. Need. To. Get. Inside." She's so urgent, he would laugh, but he is somehow _more_ urgent, so he reaches for his keys again.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, stepping back. Emily slides down the front of him ( _Lord have mercy_ ) and scoots around him, her hands quicker than his. She grabs her purse and his keys, which had hit the bricks without him even hearing it. She hands them back to him and he tries jamming the key in the lock several times before his shaking hands actually cooperate.

They move inside the door, and she turns away, looking for a place to put her bag, but she fumbles with it a bit before setting it down. He slides up behind her, wrapping an arm around her, while he brushes her hair away from her neck. He won't even try to explain it, but as soon as she melts back into him, he knows he has to fuck her like this, or totally lose his mind. The first time anyway, cannot be face to face.

He pushes her shirt up, and she lifts her arms eagerly. Pushing her bra straps down ends with him cupping her bare breasts in his hands, but she deftly reaches back to unhook it, leaving no obstacles between his hands and her soft skin. The hard points of her nipples nestle into his palms until the only thing happening is him mindlessly rubbing himself against her ass.

She gasps his name and pulls one of his hands from her breast to press something into his palm. As she moves away from him slightly to unbutton, unzip, and shove down her pants and underwear, he realizes the object in his hand is a rubber.

The idea that she carries rubbers around with her on a regular basis is both fucking hot and slightly disconcerting. He doesn't dwell on it too long though, because it feels like it takes him far too long--the longest ten seconds in history, no doubt--to get his clothes off and roll it on, but he manages to get it done.

The moment he pushes inside her is the craziest one of his life, from top to bottom. That morning when he'd left his house, he'd imagined the thrill of seeing her and maybe getting to spend some time with her, but never in a million years could he have anticipated this.

She says his name desperately and with the help of his steadying hand against her stomach, moves into him, catching the rhythm he starts. It lasts all of forty seconds, but her fingers dig into the back of his neck, and he feels her entire body go tight, then loose.

When he comes, a jumble of words scurry through his brain, but mostly _Emily, Emily, Em_ is all that leaves his mouth.

 

 

The next few days become a scramble of pushing everything into every moment that they can, though they have work responsibilities. Emily's biggest thing is that she has to return to New York on Monday because of a video shoot she has planned.

Norman makes a few phone calls during their times apart and convinces her producer to come to Atlanta to shoot because it's cheaper than NYC, but the parking garage where they filmed several episodes of the show has the same production value they're looking for.

(He surprises her with this turn of events late Sunday night, and she ends up with her mouth around his cock as a thank you. It's a whole lot of him half-heartedly protesting that she doesn't have to do that combined with the desire for her to do it over and over again, because _holy fucking shit_.)

For two weeks, she sits around his house playing her guitar and putting flowers in vases and in general just being there when he comes home from work. It's a vacation to her once the video is finished, but the longer it goes on, the more he starts to contemplate how to make it permanent.

All he sees now are the missed opportunities of the four years they've known each other. He tries to reason with himself about timing and all that, but every time he looks at Emily he can't remember not being totally in love with her.

(She cuddles with his cat, and he imagines introducing her to Mingus.)

Maybe he's re-writing history, and maybe he's sex drunk, but either way he doesn't really care. He wants her to stay forever, but he can't figure out a way to ask for that. Not without implying a whole lot of everything else that they should not be talking about this soon. It would have made so much more sense when Beth Greene was alive.

On Halloween night, she has a gig in downtown Atlanta, one she booked when they decided she would stay for a bit. She absolutely has to go back to New York the next day because she's been gone for two weeks, and as she laughingly told him the night before when they were rolling around in his bed, _I have a life there, you know!_

Maybe this has just been a moment out of life--out of time, really, and he hadn't been sure what to say to that. So he just whispered, "I know," and kissed her. That shut them both up for a while.

He arrives at Eddie's Attic a few minutes before her set is going to start, and the guy at the door knows who he is (everybody in Atlanta knows who he is), but he also says, "Oh, yes. Miss Kinney asked to have you placed at a special table. Follow me, sir."

He's heard her sing a million times, not just because she can't really help it and tends to sing all the time anyway, but because she always gets asked to sing. At wrap parties, for certain episodes of the show, at Cons, whatever. Wherever Em goes, Em gets invited to sing.

But there is something different about sitting in a crowd of people listening to a woman sing when you've shared so much with her; the words that come out of her mouth now feel different to him, because he knows her better, because he's lain in the quiet of night, just breathing with her.

(Because he loves her, and if she feels even a little bit of that back towards him, every word out of her mouth could mean something important.)

In the end, he sits there with a drink that goes untouched and cigarettes in his pocket that never cross his mind. He's captivated afresh by her innate goodness, how even as she sings about telling a man to leave another woman, she somehow makes it seem like the right thing.

(Maybe that's exactly why he did it.)

 

 

She kisses him softly. He's not going to get out of the car and walk into the airport with her, because he's already going to be late for a meeting with Scott Gimple, who had flown in special to Atlanta for something. He didn't tell Em about that, and he plans to just call ahead and blame it on traffic. There was no way in hell he wasn't driving her to the airport, or rather, that he wasn't renting the car that drove them there so they could sit together in the backseat. 

"I'll text you when I land," she says, her lips against the corner of his mouth.

"Sounds good," he mumbles, when really he means _no._ Or _don't go_. Or any number of things that are selfish and stupid and so he keeps them to himself.

Emily pulls back, her eyes wide with something that tugs painfully at his heart. "This has been an amazing two weeks," she says.

"Stop," he murmurs, only because he can't handle some sort of platitude about it all. 

It's not that they haven't talked about it, because they have. They're gonna "see how it goes." They'll be together again in mid-December for another Walker Stalker Con, but Norman is also hoping to get out to LA when Emily will be there for _The Talking Dead_ the night 5x08 airs. He plans to surprise her because he already knows how hard a day it will be for her (and for everyone who loves Beth Greene). 

She smiles and kisses him again, deeply; tongue, a little bit of teeth and a whole lot of passion, and then she scoots away from him as the driver knocks on the door to let her know he's out there with her bag.

"You're gonna miss me so bad when I'm gone, Norman Reedus," she quotes as she opens the door.

(She gives him the crazy-eyed _we should burn it down_ Beth Greene look, and he nearly grabs her back.)

He watches her walk away through the window, knowing it's all over for him, one way or another.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, this was posted on Emily's Instagram on 11/16/14:  
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Darylbootyshorts_zps9c3975ed.jpg.html)
> 
> As far as artistic license goes, I don't know how accurate it is to think that Emily would have been at the Talking Dead taping without any handlers, but for the sake of this story, that's how it plays out.

Life imitates art.

Or is it _art imitates life_?

He doesn't know. He can't remember. 

He supposes, either way he's screwed. Daryl's gonna bawl his eyes out across Georgia and into North Carolina, and Norman? Well, Norman may end up bawling his way through the rest of his life.

It's important to note that he won't be _balling_ his way through the rest of his life. He's 45; he's not dead yet. But seriously, in that first week that he's separated from Emily, it's like drug withdrawal.

(Like maybe it would be easier to quit smoking than to live 900 miles away from this woman.)

He's never been one to make long-term plans; it's more fun to just see where things take him. But for the first time in his life, long-term plans interest him. And the answer to a long-term question scares the shit out of him.

He has work, which is good for many reasons, but Daryl's decline into insanity is either catching or is more of life imitating art; he's beginning to think he is not equipped to handle it.

And one day, it just pours out of him when he crosses paths with Steven at Craft Services. "How's it going, man?" slips easily from his friend's mouth, and _it's on_.

By the end of it (and Norman doesn't even remember half of what he spouts), Steven's quivering lips reinforce how ridiculous he's being so he shakes his head, waves a dismissive hand, and says, "Oh, forget it!"

"No, no, _no!_ " Steven says, grabbing at Norman's arm. "Stop, c'mon. I'm not trying to make fun of you, but admit it, it's kinda funny."

Norman glares at Steven and then demands, "If you're not making fun of me, how is it funny?"

Steven puts his hands up, "Okay, okay, it's more, I guess, _ironic_ , maybe? I mean, you've whored your way around most of your life, and now you're all _is she using me for sex?_ Which, I might add, is the craziest fucking thing you could ever think about Emily!" Laughter pours forth now, and Steven just shakes his head. "I can't help it, I'm sorry! It's funny!" He holds his middle, and bends over slightly. "I mean, I was just noticing how bummed you look, I didn't think you needed a therapy session."

At first it just pisses him off, but then it starts to sink in, and soon he's laughing right along with Steven. When they both grow quiet again, and Steven goes back to getting himself some food, Norman says, "You know, it is funny, because I could tell she was a bit freaked out when it all went down. I wasn't, though. It was...it wasn't until she left. Too much time alone, I guess."

Steven pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. "It's the decline in sex," he says cheekily. "You're in withdrawal."

"I know, right? I had the exact same thought, actually." He grabs an apple. "Well, I was thinking more like, being without Em herself was like drug withdrawal, not the sex, per se...."

Steven's grin grows larger and he bounces on the balls of his feet. "Just tell her how you feel. Just get it out there. Take the guesswork out of it." 

Norman holds his body very still, possibly in opposition to Steven's energy, but certainly in complete shock to the suggestion. "I can't do that, not over the phone. I mean, that's an in-person kinda thing to say."

"You don't Skype? FaceTime? C'mon, dude. No excuses. Bite the bullet." He scoops up more vegetables and dumps them on a paper plate. "Otherwise, there's gonna be a lot of this," he gestures at the space between Norman and his own body. "And I will only laugh louder and harder."

Before Norman can tell him to fuck off, a voice comes from behind him. "What are you ladies discussing over here this fine morning?" Andy asks, causing both Norman and Steven to look at him as he approaches them.

From the smirk on his face, Norman would bet he heard a good deal of their conversation. He's also had many a gentle British lecture on the perks of settling down, of finding one woman and building something real with her.

Through an entire year of dating Cecelia, he had honestly approached it from that angle, all the while Andy had been in his ear with more Married Man Wisdom like choosing someone more age appropriate. 

(Trying to make something real and lasting with someone even less interested in it than yourself was a surefire way to success, too.)

As he looks at his friend now, he wants to ask if Emily's eight years on Cecelia somehow makes her a better contender, but he knows the answer to his own question.

Because with Em, age isn't even an issue.

He never loved Cecilia. Maybe he's this old and he's never really loved anyone, and that's why he's freaking the fuck out.

In fact, maybe that's what's all over Andy Lincoln's smirky face right this moment.

"Shut up," Norman says.

"I didn't say a word," Andy replies. His smirk morphs into a smile. "But I'm dying to."

"Seriously, shut the fuck up," Norman says, raising a warning finger towards him.

"It's okay, Andy, I'll tell you all about it, later," Steven says, which causes Andy to laugh.

Norman pivots, walking away with his apple in his hand. "Fuck you both!" he shouts as he heads back towards set.

(Before he eats his snack, he texts Emily about setting up a Skype chat.)

 

 

"So?" 

Norman looks up from his script to see Steven in the doorway of his trailer.

He tenses because he knows what his buddy wants, but he didn't do it, so he wishes he had no idea what he was talking about.

"So, what?"

(Nice.)

Steven rolls his eyes. "Giant. Pussy." He shakes his head. "Just sayin'," he mutters, backing up, and giving Norman two thumbs-down.

Norman flips him off in return, but Steven's already turned away and doesn't even see his response.

They had Skyped for two hours the night before. She had been beautiful and happy, rambling on about song writing and the feel of the city and how she loved taking the subway. He felt like a perv because he was totally hard just listening to her talk about mundane things. At one point, she leaned in closer and said, "Tell me about work!" only to quickly retract it with, "No, don't! I don't want to know. I'll just be a fan, who has to wait for it on my TV screen."

As they wrapped things up, he said, "I miss you bad, Em," to which she'd brightly replied, "Told ya!" Then her face had gone all soft and she practically whispered, "I miss you so bad, too, baby."

He had been glad they'd had to get off then because she had plans with friends, but he had felt like a total shithead because he didn't say what he intended to say.

She made him feel things he'd never felt before; and it was one thing to be scared. He'd had lots of scary moments in his life, like an unplanned pregnancy and a relationship that couldn't magically work just because there was a wonderful child at the heart of it. He'd been unemployed more often than he'd been employed since deciding to be an actor, and transient was a word he lived well.

But nothing is more terrifying than the idea that his _miss you_ is more deeply meant or felt than hers. Because to be here, in this place all alone has never happened to him. He'd been in plenty of "relationships" where he felt less than the other person, and he'd had a lot of fuck-buddy type situations that suited him just fine.

The only regret he carried till now was how things with Helena affected Mingus. Emily had said, their first night together, that she didn't want to ruin things between them.

He dismissed it then, but now it fucking haunts his every waking hour.

(Total fucking headcase, he knows. He _knows_.)

Later, just before they start filming a scene where they're supposed to run through the woods, Steven catches his eye. "Just tell her," he reiterates. "I can't take your face anymore."

(He can hardly stand himself, so that's not surprising information.)

 

 

He is 100% ready to tell her, but they have conflicting schedules for _two fucking weeks_. Every time they try to find time to talk, it doesn't work out because his shoot goes late, or Emily's recording session ends up lasting twice as long because her producer double booked the time without her knowledge. Then he goes on night shoots for five days and his sleep schedule gets all messed up.

By the time they finally get to see each other face to face again, it's a few days before Thanksgiving. 

"Finally," Emily breathes, as their call is connected, her smile wide. 

He touches the computer screen before he can stop himself. His thumb outlines her cheek, and he imagines being with her in L.A. in less than a week. Her actual skin under his hands, her actual breath on his face. Her surprise when he turns up so unexpectedly.

"Hey," he says. 

(Super original, right?)

"Are you alright?" she asks, a little frown appearing between her brows.

"Oh, yeah, I'm great." He's panicking--he's doing it, he's not doing it--he'll see her in five days, he can just say it then, when it will be pretty fucking clear, considering he had to ask for time off, and they reconfigured some of their shooting schedule to accommodate him, and _oh, jesus, what the fuck am I doing?_

"Norman?" she asks, and he's not sure how long he's been silent, or if maybe he just said everything that flew through his brain.

And then he just loses total control of the situation by saying, "I wanted to tell you somethin'."

Emily smiles again, and rests her chin on her fist, her elbow planted on the table top in front of her. "What's that?" she asks.

"I was thinking about that whole life reflecting art...or art reflecting life, or however it goes? You know, I can never fucking remember what it is...."

"I think it's life imitates art, isn't it?" she offers.

"Oh, right, yeah, that's what I meant. Imitates. Not reflects. Yeah."

And that's it. He pauses, realizing he hadn't even started out right, and somehow it throws him off even more. The silence stretches and Emily prompts, "What about it?"

He shouldn't talk. No words should leave his mouth. He can feel it in his gut, it's a trainwreck. It _will be a trainwreck._

(He will fucking kill Steven Yeun for this, he will.)

"You know, how Daryl kinda fell for Beth, and all. It's like some of that leaked over on to us, you know? And there's this thing, with us, we're getting to experience what they never will, and sometimes, I don't know, it's like--"

He stopped looking directly at her at some point, but his eyes are drawn back immediately when she interrupts him with, "You think this is about Beth and Daryl?"

"Well, no--"

"That's what it sounds like you just said."

"Well, you're the one who quotes her all the damn time."

He doesn't mean it. He doesn't even know what he means by he _doesn't mean it_ , all he knows is it is not going well, at all, and he hasn't even gotten to the point, which is--

"I said _one_ thing. _One time_. To be funny. You're the one who always texts me about how much you miss me now that I'm gone. So who's quoting who, here?" She no longer has her chin on her fist, but instead she gestures, vaguely wild, at the air around her. 

"Em--"

"What are you trying to say, Norman?"

(Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._ )

"Nothing, I'm trying to say _nothing_. It's not coming out right, I just--"

"I need to go."

"Em--"

"I just. No. I need to go. Goodnight, Norman."

And then she's gone, and he's screwed, and he doesn't even know how it happened.

 

 

She doesn't tell her family anything. Thanksgiving is food, and games, and lots of laughter. It's the perfect distraction, both from what awaits her Sunday evening and that other thing that she can make no sense of.

(Norman.)

(Fucking.)

(Reedus.)

A guy she thought she was gonna have something important with--a guy she _already_ had something important with...

No, no, it's all wrong, and even as she boards the plane for L.A. that Saturday, she's still mulling it over. She hasn't spoken to him since, except in a few cryptic texts. He's been apologetic and anxious to talk to her when she's ready, but also very placating and understanding when she said she doesn't want to talk yet. 

The door isn't closed forever, that much she promised him, but she's just sort of regrouping because regardless of what he meant to say, what he had said upturned her world.

All she can think about is the play of pretending.

The fact that actors often fall into relationships with co-stars had always seemed to her, the same as anybody who met someone at work: proximity and opportunity all rolled up together. Certainly most employers frowned upon fraternizing, but many a show or film had been built up based on the real-life romance of the starring couple.

(And the hope that if it ended, it didn't destroy their product. Any press is good, though, even bad press, at least in Hollywood.)

That hadn't been her and Norman for obvious reasons, mostly because they hadn't gotten to it onscreen much beyond any initial romantic pangs. She had been attracted to him long before Beth and Daryl shared any screentime, and her realization that she was in love with him had nothing to do with the show at all, unless you counted getting fired as a catalyst.

In which case, it was totally the show's fault.

But maybe there was something to the exploration of truth, as well as the fabrication of it. The spell of pretending. It wasn't real. None of it, and maybe Norman hadn't meant to say it, but had been in the process of understanding it, too, even as it came out of his mouth.

Now, as his most recent text stated, he didn't want to ruin what was between them, just as she said in the beginning. _You're important to me, Em, in whatever way you choose to be in my life._

The implication of course, was, did she choose to be in his life now that it felt very much like it wasn't going to be what she wanted it to be? Or because what she'd imagined it could be was just a fantasy?

He used that term their first night together...it had been better than his fantasies, is what he'd said.

(God, she wishes she'd never let this happen at all.)

Yeah, so it was either cry her head off to her parents about the whole thing, or let her family distract her with their innate goodness. Plan B had been wonderful, but now it's over. Too much food consumed, sleep overindulged, and now back to real life.

She lands in L.A. fairly late in the day, but not so late that Chris Hardwick's producer didn't think it past time to call her. She returns the call and learns she's supposed to be at the studio the next day around 5pm. They want to go over some questions and prep her for the couch. They also invite her to come and watch the show with their studio audience, but she declines. There's no way she can sit there with people watching her while she views it. AMC had agreed to send her over a DVD that she could watch alone in her hotel before she joined in at _The Talking Dead_. 

At least this time, John Barrowman won't be there to make her flush beet red as he complimented her 'back acting' or ask her all kinds of questions about what was going to happen once Daryl and Beth got reunited. He had cornered her after filming stopped and in his enthusiasm missed her discomfort about the whole thing.

It would be awkward in a whole other way with Robert Kirkman there, someone she'd only met a handful of times who had played a large role in her demise, and another actor/comedian she had no clue about, but still. It would be easier than having to troubleshoot a diehard "Bethyl" fan and an actor she respected who gushed about how awesome he thought she was.

Egos love to be stroked, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to get through any of this with any dignity. There was too much Norman all messed up in her head combined with reliving the death all over again.

She has a good cry after she watches the show alone in her hotel room. She tells herself that's all she'll need, but if more crying has to happen, she will do it after _The Talking Dead_ is over. 

(Right before she turns the lights out for the night, a text comes in from Norman. _Sending you all my good vibes. You can do it._ )

After thrashing around on her bed for an hour, she climbs into a hot shower and tells herself she'll cry more _now_ and hopefully not at all tomorrow.

(She does not think about a man sitting on an apple crate going through his own process.)

 

 

By the time she gets to the studio the next day, she's done everything she can think of to calm her mind. Chris Hardwick stops by the green room and asks her how she's doing. When she instantly tears up, he grabs her hand and says, "How about we have you come out during the third segment? The first couple we'll get Kirkman to give the background on everything, and we'll cover the other parts of the show. You don't need to be there for that."

She nods and thanks him, feeling somewhat relieved. After he leaves, she eats some of the fruit and vegetables laid out on the nearby table. She hasn't been hungry all day, but she's forced herself to eat, so she does it again now in an effort to keep herself busy.

Then she practices more deep breathing techniques.

All the same, the time flies and it's not long before some intern comes to get her. Just standing there looking at the kid makes her eyes well up again and she starts shaking her head. "I can't," she says. "I'm not ready."

She runs for the bathroom and tries to convince herself that this is some kind of reverberation about losing her job, about moving from Atlanta, about...

A knock at the door forces her to wipe her eyes and be a grown up. She pulls it open and apologizes to Chris's producer, a really lovely woman named Jenny. "I'm having a harder time than I expected. I'm so sorry."

"Chris is totally understanding. He said he could give you ten more minutes. Can you handle that?"

The woman's kindness is almost too much for her to take, but she finds something inside her that she thought was spent.

_Sending you all my good vibes. You can do it._

Once she gets out on the couch and has to sit next to Robert Kirkman, who praises her so profusely she feels a similar kind of embarrassment to when she had met John Barrowman, there's something to grab on to, something to focus on, and it helps her get through it better.

Then they show a clip of Norman talking about how sad he was; it starts at the back of her throat again until Chris asks her a question that reminds of the funnier aspects of filming. It takes her back, not only to the beginning of her understanding of how much he means to her, but to the light side of things. How death in television can be profound, but that acting is just pretending. What she does for a living is a funny thing.

It's the best thing ever. 

It was the time of her life, regardless. The happiness overcomes the sad in that moment, and she is emotional again, but this time it's joyful. 

She doesn't know what it was for Norman, but for her, it was real. She loved him, she loves him still. And she wouldn't change it.

It might not be able to be what she would like it to, but she has no regrets.

(Freedom comes at the strangest moments.)

Chris Hardwick hugs her when she starts to cry again, and then after they've finished filming, he gives her another one. "You just watch," he says sagely. "The fans aren't going to let this go. I've never seen this level of response on any of the other deaths, not even Hershel. And I'm your fanboy for life, so let me know your other upcoming projects okay? We'd love to have you back on the show later, if you're interested, too. You can always come as a fan. The door is always open."

She laughs and lets him hug her a third time. Then his producer taps her on the shoulder. "Miss Kinney? There's someone here to see you."

Emily follows the woman back to the green room, and now she's ravenously hungry, so she hopes the food is still in there. "Who in the world would be here to see me?" she asks. 

As she comes through the door, the sight that greets her has her blinking in disbelief. Like maybe she conjured him up, since she had an epiphany about him while groping her way through the hardest interview of her life. He's got a ratty old baseball cap on and sunglasses, well, because he's _Norman_ , but he quickly reaches up and pulls them both off his head.

His hair is unkempt, like he'd just rolled out of bed, and the glasses in his hands make a clicking noise, which causes her to glance down and see how tightly his hands are gripping them. White-knuckled, like this is the scariest moment ever.

Emily's breath rattles to a stop as their eyes meet, and she glimpses the producer lady's sly smile as she retreats from the room. He clears his throat, but still doesn't say anything, which makes it all the more awkward. Emily finds the oxygen to ask, "What are you doing here?"

He takes a step towards her, but she can tell he's holding himself back. "Looking to beg for some forgiveness?" 

She doesn't have the ability to speak after that, though words are crowding her brain.

"Or, at the very least, offer support." He does move forward then, a hand lifting to cup her cheek, his thumb sliding over the salty residue of all her crying. She can't help it, she immediately falls into his touch, dipping her face into his palm slightly. His lips quirk a bit, and a rough sigh spills out of his mouth. "You can kick me out tomorrow, okay? Whaddaya say?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to leobrat for general hand holding, idea swaps, and wiki searches. :D
> 
> This story has taken on a life of its own, and I have no idea how far it might take me. For this I blame Norman and Emily, but also leobrat who suggested one thing that changed the whole context of what happens here. 
> 
> The payoff will happen in the next chapter, and I'll do my best to wrap it up, but considering this was only supposed to be two parts and now it's four? I make no promises.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily%20comicon_zpss6jpkqlj.png.html)   
>  [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily%20kissing_zpswip3jhma.gif.html)   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continued massive thank you to leobrat for general hand holding, idea swaps, wiki searches, and good ol' betaing. This opening scene is all for you. ;-) [Because it's not the opening scene you first read.]

("Who's that?"

Norman waited, watching Steven as he pulled the lace tight on his shoe. Then he glanced up to see which direction Norman was pointing. "That's Emily. The brunette over there," he points towards one of the make-up trailers, "is Lauren, and I'm sure Scott's around here somewhere. They're the new people, the ones you didn't meet yesterday morning because of your--whatever, _sleepover_." He made air quotes with his fingers, a look of distaste on his face.

"Fuck you," Norman muttered. "You're just jealous."

"Of all the ass you get? No, not really."

Norman ignored the judgment. "The blonde, though, her name's Emily? She's gorgeous."

Steven stood all the way upright now that his shoe was tied. "Yes, she is, but don't get any ideas. She's a nice girl. From Nebraska."

Norman snorted. "Girls from Nebraska don't have sex?"

"I'm sure she's got a boyfriend."

"Does she?"

Steven looked agitated. "I don't know! But stay away from her. She's a _nice_ girl."

Norman clapped Steven on the shoulder. "Those are the best kind," he said. As he started towards her, Steven said his name warningly. "Relax, man. I'm just gonna introduce myself. You know I have a very strict policy about not dating actor-types."

Steven rolled his eyes. "You have a strict policy of not actually _dating_ anyone."

Norman lays a hand over his heart. "You wound me. And besides, what if it's just 'cause I haven't met the right girl yet? Maybe Emily is _The One_."

"I'm serious, man," Steven called as Norman walked away.

"So am I!" he shouted back, which of course was utter bullshit.

He put his best flirt on, and then did his best to forget the way her smile had made his heart pound.)

 

 

In Em's hotel room, there is too much furniture.

The reason he knows this is because they bounce off nearly all of it before they end up in a pile of arms and legs on this goofy sofa that is just past the desk, and the table that the television sits on, but not as far into the room as the bed is.

He had said, of course, "I didn't come here for this," but she was halfway to sticking her tongue down his throat at the TV studio, and even if he truly hadn't come there for _that_ , he certainly wasn't against it.

"Oh, shit," he groans as they land heavily, Emily on top of him, fortunately. He's trying to get them both situated, but then her hand has somehow undone his pants and is sliding inside his underwear, and everyone knows no man can think when that is happening.

Or at least, his thoughts are reduced, very finely, to one thing.

"Baby," he pants, one hand grasping a wad of her hair as she flips it out of her way. Then she's sliding south, and he doesn't quite get what's happening because he keeps trying to pull her back up. She uses an elbow to knock his hand loose from her arm, and lowers her head to take his cock into her mouth.

Everything is moving at such a rapid pace, nobody could blame him for what happens next, right?

He swears luridly and her head jerks up, his cock leaving her mouth with a loud pop, and something about her face causes the words to tumble from his lips simply and easily.

"I fucking love you."

(Still manages to mess it up, but whatever. Now it's out there.)

 

 

His flight to California is delayed.

And the only good thing about it is that he hadn't broken down and told Em he was on his way, so she has no idea that he intended to be there _before_ she had to go to the taping of _The Talking Dead_.

He drinks too much coffee and can't smoke any cigarettes because he's trapped at the fucking airport. And maybe it's karma and he deserves it a bit, but really if there were anyway to get there faster, he would do it.

There's literally nothing he can do; the airplane has a repair that has to be made and he's just delayed, period. _Sorry, sucks to be you, dude._ By the time he lands and gets his rental car, he's not even sure if she'll still be at the studio, but he goes there first anyway. 

The security guard out front does a double take, and radios to someone from the walkie strapped to his shoulder. "Mr. Reedus is here?"

"No, man, I'm not here...for taping," Norman shakes his head and touches the guy's other shoulder. "I'm here for Emily Kinney. She still here?"

He has no idea, but he radios that question up and when the staticky response of "They're just about finished," comes over, Norman feels the tightness in his chest loosen just a bit. He's still tense enough that he smoked four cigarettes right in a row on his drive over, but the fact that he won't be making his appearance on her hotel room doorstep is way better for him.

(He would feel like such a dick if it looked like in any way, shape, or form that he ended up here for a booty call.)

"You can go on up, Mr. Reedus," the guard says. "Fourth floor, remember?"

Norman nods, and shakes the guy's hand. He remembers him from his previous visits and he proves it by saying, "Thanks, Lamar." They'd had quite a lengthy conversation one of the times he'd been there before, and Norman rarely forgot people he'd had those kinds of interactions with. The guy smiles warmly, and it settles him for just a moment. "How's your wife?" he asks as he heads towards the elevator.

"Doing great, baby number three is on his way." Lamar grins big enough to show his pride in his contribution to that condition.

"You know they got a pill for that, right?" Norman jokes as the elevator doors open, and Lamar gives a big belly laugh, waving him off.

The ride up is a solo one, and he starts to think that this will be the moment he proves whether he's an actor of any talents at all. He's scared to death, and he has to act like he's not. Or, he needs to show just the right amount of chagrin so Em will even give him the time of day. Or, he just needs to start the conversation with him already on his knees in front of her, so it's clear as a bell, with no wiggle room.

(He would actually benefit very much from someone else writing his dialogue right now, come to think of it.)

Several people recognize him once he's on the fourth floor, and he asks a woman to find Em and bring her to him. "Don't tell her it's me...it's kinda a surprise, you know?"

She hurries off, happy to do his bidding, but first she directs him to the green room. While he's waiting he checks his phone; she never responded to the text he'd sent the night before encouraging her. His stomach rolls at the thought that she will not be happy to see him.

He'd give anything for another cigarette right now.

He hears her ask as she's coming up the hall, "Who in the world would be here to see me?" and he wants to throw up.

 

 

"What did you say?" she asks, moving to a full-on kneeling position on the floor in front of him.

He's literally hanging out of his pants, and his shirt is mostly unbuttoned, but the only thing he managed to do to her was mess up her perfectly styled hair. And kiss all the lip gloss of her mouth, but that happened before they even left downtown.

It's an incredibly vulnerable moment that he didn't plan, that he would never have executed this way, at all, if he could just have figured out how to say it sooner.

She puts a hand on his knee. "Norman?"

He takes a deep breath and then lays his hand over hers. "I'm in love with you. Not Beth, not Daryl. None of that. Norman loves Emily. That's it. That's why I'm here."

She blinks several times, but it doesn't stop the tears that spill over the apples of her cheeks. She is truly the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and her reaction is enough to take any reservations he has left right out of him, though she doesn't reply.

(He might not say anything else out of fear of screwing it up, or because his throat is suddenly tight and clogged.)

Getting to her feet carefully, she undresses very deliberately. First she pulls her shirt off over her head, and her hair drops over her shoulder like a blonde waterfall. She reaches for the button on her black pants, slowly undoing it and giving her hips a little shimmy so that they slide down her legs. She kicks her shoes aside with the trousers, and it takes all of his self-control not to look at the matching bra and panties she's wearing. In his peripheral vision he can see that they are a soft pink color, like the sweetest spots on her body, but to break eye contact with her at this point seems wrong. 

She smiles just a touch, a little lift to the right side of her mouth, and then she drops her lashes very coyly. It allows his gaze to leave hers and go to her shoulders as she tugs the straps of her bra down, one at a time; next is the ultimate peeling away of the cups from her body so her breasts come into view. He misses the part where she unhooks her bra and drops it to the floor because he's mesmerized by the hard, flushed tips of her breasts. He chews on his bottom lip in anticipation, suddenly very aware of the saliva in his mouth.

Then she hooks her thumb under the right hip of her panties, and tugs them down. It's the tamest stripshow he's ever seen, but at the same time, he's sure he's never been more aroused, never wanted someone this badly, never in all his life seen something so precious that was being offered solely to him.

Once she's naked, she leans down to tug his pants just far enough down, but not all the way off. He lifts his hips to help, but when it's obvious she doesn't intend for him to be fully naked, he's relieved that she doesn't want to wait any longer either. She climbs on his lap and positions herself over him. There is a split second where he knows he should ask about birth control, but then she slides down on him, and thoughts scatter like leaves before the wind.

It's different this time. Not just the sensation, or the fact that they've never had sex in this position before, but the intent behind her movement feels distinctive. She pushes her hands under the lapels of his shirt, giving herself leverage as she moves up and down, but she doesn't lean close enough for them to kiss. 

The pace she sets is as agonizing as it is tantalizing, and the matching gasps, moans, and whimpers that escape both of them makes him aware that it's purposeful. She's doing it to both of them, _for both of them_ , not rushing for the climax, but leading them steadily into it.

He runs his hands up her thighs, feeling the movement of her muscles as she rides him, but then he follows the curves of her hips upward. His palms skate across her belly to cup her breasts, and that's when her eyes close, breaking the concentration between them as his fingers pluck at her nipples. The more he strums their hard little points, the louder she gets, and the faster her undulations become until he can feel it _right there_ ; he's just dangling from the precipice, ready, so ready.

Not wanting to go without her, not here, not this time, when this time feels like something they absolutely need to do together, he whispers, "How close are you?"

She keens then as though his question makes it worse, swiveling her hips into his in a new way. Her mouth drops open, and her eyes squeeze tighter shut. "So close," she whispers back. "Oh!" The sound catches in the back of her throat, and then transforms into a desperate plea. "Norman... _please._ "

He could get her there, with his hands just on her nipples, but he doesn't think he can hold out much longer. He drops one hand between them, sliding it where their bodies are intimately joined. When he finds her clit, she gasps and her eyes pop open. With a little extra rubbing, it's only a matter of seconds before she throws her head back and her body tightens around his so completely, it's like all the lights go down at once, only to blaze back on with the fierceness of the noonday sun.

He explodes within her; his body expands in both a physical and mental way. All that passes between them feels encompassing, overwhelming, more than any other moment of his life. She falls forward, laying against his chest, and when she bursts into tears a quiet moment later, he doesn't try to ignore his own emotion. He just wraps his arms around her, absorbing everything he can. Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he whispers, "I love you. I love you, Em."

 

 

She is quiet for so long, he's sure that coming to California was the worst decision he's ever made. Even though his offer for her to throw him out tomorrow means she can make it as completely meaningless as she wants, her face conveys a certain amount of confusion, but no other particular feeling. Then she throws herself into his arms, hugging him hard. It catches him by surprise and he crashes back into the food table behind him a little.

Her laughter startles him into motion; he drops his hat and glasses to the floor to free his hands. He grips her head, pulling her back so he can look into her face. "I'm sorry, Em, so sor--" but then she's kissing him, and he guesses she accepts his apology.

She's at her enthusiastic best, which in turn makes him his _enthusiastic best_ , but there are people all over the place, and he wasn't especially wanting an audience for this. She pulls back for breath, and the smile on her face is enough to make him forget everything that needs to be said--and said correctly.

"I have a driver waiting for me downstairs," she says. Her grin is too adorable for him to think about his rental car, or his overnight bag in it. He just nods his head and lets her drag him out of the place.

She talks the whole way down to the car (when she's not kissing the life out of him), and then as they're driving across town, an adrenaline high coursing through her so that he is up to speed on everything within that short amount of time. He doesn't care because he's missed this so much, her voice, her laughter, and he's happy to just listen, to just hold her hand and be amazed that he's with her at all.

When they get to the hotel, her smile turns sultry; he realizes all her babbling had served a purpose, but he's easily back at square one with one flick of her eyelashes. Which seems apparent from her demeanor, and all the uncertainty that caused the rift between them is gone now.

When the valet opens the door, Emily's eyes flash impishly. "You ready?" she asks.

He thinks he finally is.

 

 

("I'm Norman," he said, sticking his hand out for her to shake.

His grip was firm, warm, but not too tight. "Emmy," she said.

"Emmy?" he questioned, a smirk dancing across his lips. He squinted an eye and her stomach fluttered, a sure sign of impending doom. "I asked that fella over there and he said your name is Emily. You go by Emmy?"

She gave him a smile, genuine and pure, because he earned it. Charming, check. Friendly, check. Just the right amount of aggressive, check. "Well, my birth certificate reads _Emilia_. My SAG card reads _Emily_. My friends call me _Emmy_."

"Huh," he grunted. Swinging the crossbow in his hand up on to his shoulder, he took a step back. "I'll call you _Em_ ," he stated, sauntering away. He turned back to look at her, his gaze roaming over her appreciatively as he walked backward towards the farm house. "Wouldn't want to get mixed up with all your _friends_."

He winked, she giggled. 

Welcome to _The Walking Dead_ , she thought.)

 

 

It's funny how the brain works, how there are all these things going on at any one time, and that Norman Reedus could be standing in front of her, looking 98% terrified and all she can think of is the first time she met him and how completely _himself_ he'd seemed that day.

She realizes now, this is the real Norman, this is the one she fell in love with, even though the other one had first garnered her attention.

It's okay, though, because this one is much more preferable and that he's here means more than he could ever know, more than she could ever say. So she just wraps herself around him and welcomes him without words, because it's so much easier.

In the elevator on the way down, his bottom lip is between her teeth when he mutters something about _not here for this, you know, babe...oh, god..._ as she's rubbing herself against him. His hand flattens against the small of her back and holds her still and he shakes his head just once so that she stops. The doors ding open, and as they head for the car Emily can't stop smiling or talking, which considering how much she's cried the last two days, it's remarkable how suddenly different she feels.

(Anything is possible.)

"Have a great night, Mr. Reedus," the security guard calls as she continues to talk, and Norman turns back just slightly, to wave at him. 

"You made friends here?" she asks as he opens the car door for her.

"I make friends everywhere," he mumbles, but she swears under the hair and newly replaced hat and glasses, he's blushing.

She tells the driver the name of her hotel as Norman rounds the car and gets in on the other side. Then she puts her hand out, palm up, and waits for him to slide his fingers through hers.

She's afraid she's never been this happy, ever.

(His hand is warm, and his thumb strokes over her knuckles the whole way across town.)

 

 

"I fucking love you."

From the expression on his face, it's as big a surprise to him as it is to her that he has said this, and Emily's heart stops, only to start back up as a loud, erratic sound in her ears. Within a split second she becomes sure she misheard him because too many things that she's wanted to happen are happening, and she doesn't trust it.

Then he says, "I'm in love with you. Not Beth, not Daryl. None of that. Norman loves Emily. That's it. That's why I'm here."

And suddenly it's very quiet. In her mind, in her heart. Everything clicks perfectly, for one moment. 

So she pulls off her clothes and straddles his thighs, taking him inside her bare, because to her, this is the chance she's been willing to take all along.

(It easier to jump when someone's holding your hand, however.)

It's everything she has to give; and she wants him to have all of it. Her complete trust, her total faith.

The warmth of his hands travels her body, legs, hips, belly, breasts. She's literally placed all she has and is in his power, and his response is sweet and tender, more than what they've shared before.

The words she owes him are right there, but in the end, showing them is enough. Being on the edge with him, reaching for it together, changes the way she looks at everything.

She doesn't just love him; she would do anything, give anything, be anything he needed.

What makes her sob against his shoulder in the aftermath is the realization that she already is.

 

 

His hand sifts through her hair, combing it out against her back, petting and soothing as she snuggles against him. It's been a while since her tears subsided, but she's not sure how much time has passed. His lips move against the top of her head, "You okay?"

She nods and makes an affirmative sound in her throat. She doesn't want to move, because he's still inside her right now. She wants to hold him close as long as possible. "It's been an emotional roller coaster 'round here the last couple days."

She lifts her head carefully, keeping her lower body as still as possible. He puts a finger under her chin and kisses her mouth softly before saying, "I'm sorry I made you cry; if it helps any, you made me cry, too."

Emily smiles, noticing the wet patches on his cheeks. "That was pretty intense, what just happened." Using her thumb, she dabs gently at his face.

"Yeah," he murmurs, his lips caressing the part of her hand that lingers near them. "Intense. Reckless. Kinda stupid?" he asks, tilting his head just a smidge.

"It's a safe time, I did the math before I climbed on board." She clenches her inner muscles and moves against him for emphasis; he makes a little moan that reignites her desire. 

"Never a safe time, you gotta know that, babe," he says, bringing her lips back to his. He doesn't sound worried, though, just mildly turned on, and since she can literally feel him reviving inside her, she knows it's not a reprimand.

He just brushes his lips over hers, but doesn't take it deeper; that doesn't change the fact that their breathing is getting heavier. She has a moment to wonder at how love, and love declared, can make need and want synonymous. 

(And how the girl who carries condoms because she refuses to use chemical contraceptives isn't that terrified of an accidental pregnancy.)

"Maybe it was a risk worth taking," she adds as his hands slide down her back to cup her buttocks.

"Y'think?" he mumbles against her mouth.

"Well, I fucking love you, too, so yeah. I guess I do."

He laughs, but it fades quickly as he stares into her eyes. "Emily loves Norman?" he asks. When she gives a slow nod of her head, he moves her, his hands pushing her up just a little, just enough that their breaths catch. Then his hands slide down, gripping her thighs to pull her back down as he thrusts his hips up. She yelps in surprise, sensation rocketing through her and he scoots himself lower, dipping his head down to capture one of her nipples between his lips.

He uses his tongue, rapidly flicking her flesh into a hard, throbbing point of urgency, all the while using his hands to control her movements on him. For all that their first time was slow and mind-blowingly beautiful, this one shows her just how much he gave the first time, letting her go at her own rate. This time, it's all him, and his innate ability to get her body into the place that is both agony and ecstasy very quickly.

She climaxes again, whiplash fast, and he holds her against him, riding it out with her, but not coming himself. It's the longest orgasm she's ever had; the way it flows over her in waves, how he seems to know that the slightest movement from him keeps it going, and then when she gasps his name, and shudders to a stop, he slowly sits them upright.

She can feel him getting rid of his socks and shoes and eventually his pants, and she starts giggling, just because they are ridiculous. "Shush," he whispers as she pushes his shirt down his arms. Then, very carefully, he stands up, with a quick, "Hold on, now," to her. "This is the bathroom, right?" he asks, and with her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck, she nods affirmatively. 

He flips the light on as he carries her over the threshold.

The bathroom is large, with a shower that is connected to the room, but has no tub, so he easily switches the water on and gets them under the steady stream of it. He fucks her against the wall, making sure she has another orgasm as he seeks his own, and when she's weak and sleepy, he washes the make-up off her face as well as shampoos her hair.

(If she thought the sex was sweet, nothing compares to the pampering.)

He wraps her in the hotel bathrobe and leads her to the bed, tucking her beneath the covers and snuggling in beside her. She might've just drifted off, Lord knows she's spent in every way possible, but then her stomach growls so loudly it startles both of them.

A beat passes and Norman blithely asks, "Hungry?"

(Emily can't stop laughing; when he calls room service, he has to order several things because she can't tell him what she wants.)

 

 

Norman wakes up around midnight. The room is mostly dark, except for one small lamp that burns on the desk across the room. He turns his head to see Em lying next to him, but her eyes are open and she's just resting quietly.

"Hi," she says in a cute, soft voice, and all that goes through his head is how much he loves her.

_So. Fucking. Much._

The sun, the moon, the stars. She's all of it, and she's here, and she loves him back, and he's fucking crazy lucky, and he knows it.

"Hey, Beautiful," he murmurs, reaching over to touch her face. Her cheek is silky beneath his thumb, but he doesn't stay there long. Inevitably he traces the contours of her lips, and wonders at how fresh and young she looks without make-up. He's been accused of robbing many a cradle, and the same will be said now, he's sure. It's the light in her eyes that's most deceptive, though. Always has been.

"So, I was just laying here thinking that you shouldn't even be here," she says and he dips his thumb just inside her bottom lip as she speaks. "Because don't you have work tomorrow?"

"Got it off," he mutters.

"They just let you leave, when--" He presses his thumb over her mouth to stop her question.

"I had to call in a few favors, but I knew that tonight would be really hard for you, I didn't want you out here alone."

She moves, propping herself up on her elbow, but he keeps his hand on her face. "How long ago did you plan coming here?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. When you were Atlanta? Yeah, I think I asked for it off the day you left--after Halloween."

"So, this was always the plan? This didn't happen because of the fight?"

He can't help it, he feels his face morph into a smirk. "Yeah. I know I'm not good with words, but I'm not a total loser." She pushes her hand against his shoulder, and then bites her lip as she blinks rapidly. "Seriously? It's like everything I do makes you cry."

"You actually do!" she says in a high-pitched whine. "You're perfect. You, just, UGH!" She jerks her elbow out from under her head and flips herself over on to her stomach, burying her face in her pillow. A muffled, "I feel like such an idiot!" ekes out at him and he starts laughing, as well as rubs a hand over her terry-cloth covered back.

"Why do you feel ilke an idiot?" he asks.

She peeps one eye out at him, and though her voice is still muffled, he hears quite clearly, "Because, I thought maybe you didn't like me as much I like you, and look at you? You're so sweet. And I saw your tweets, too. The ones that you must have made while you were _traveling._ And then you come here, and you make love to me, and wash my hair, and buy me food, and sleep next to me, and…" She turns her face all the way back towards him, so he can see her mouth when she says, "I'm just crazy about you, 's'all."

He leans close and puts a kiss at the corner of her mouth. "Ditto, baby."

They stare at each other for a moment, and then she's back in his arms, kissing him, driving him crazy. It's all new, but it isn't, at the same time. The past rewrites itself as the future materializes.

(One unalterable history suddenly makes sense; all signs pointed to this destination.)

 

 

It is the longest night of her life--both one that seems endless, and one she never wants to end. She is so sexed out by three o'clock in the morning that when Norman says, "Let me try something," she almost says no. Just because if she has one more orgasm, her brain might melt completely.

He takes her silence for acquiescence, however, and pulls her up so she's cradled against him with her back to his chest. His hands reach around to play with her breasts. At first it's just the feather-light teasing touch that, to her mind, is nice foreplay, but then he cups and squeezes her warmly in his palms. Next, he brushes the calloused pads at the base of his fingers over her, and she arches her back involuntarily in response. It is a slow, burning build-up, a methodical repeat of those three actions until she's writhing against him, crying out for relief by the time he lowers one hand and presses it firmly between her legs. He barely touches her, but she comes so hard, she leaves crescent-shaped marks in one of his biceps where she gripped him so tightly.

As she slowly returns to earth, she wants to ask him what in the world made him do that, but she doesn't need to because he flicks a thumb over one of her nipples and says, "I knew it. So sensitive. God, you are a like a stick a dynamite, woman. It doesn't take much, and you're up in flames."

In response, she turns over and gives him the blowjob she hadn't gotten around to when they first fell through the door (something she'd been too shy to even attempt back in October--at least seeing it all the way through). She's as meticulous and detail-oriented as she knows how to be. His thighs tremble under her hands, and his cry of ecstasy this time is different; more vulnerable, less inhibited. He says a stream of swear words that make her smile proudly, and as she wipes her chin, he throws an arm up across his forehead. "You're gonna fucking kill me," he whimpers.

"That's not _exactly_ the plan," she says with a laugh. 

He looks at her as she settles on to the pillow beside him. "What _exactly_ is the plan?" he asks.

She beams, the light he's always admired in her almost blinding, then declares, "Oh, I don't know. Love you till my dying day? Something like that."

(Norman appreciates that she doesn't comment on his tear-filled eyes. She just lays her head on his shoulder and goes to sleep.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUISE. Seriously, this story is already two chapters longer than it was ever supposed to be. I am certain that I can wrap it up in one more section because it was only ever going to go as far as WSC in NY/NJ from back in the middle of December. But I just had to say, once again, how thankful I am for all of you who have come and read and commented. I draw such solidarity from the fact that others are like me and a little bit obsessed with these people's lives. It has gotten me through a very rough time. I don't know if you all are planning on still watching the show, which returns next Sunday, but I won't be watching it. If you are, no judgment, I just can't, for myself, see any point to what happened to Beth as a character, so I'm opting out. 
> 
> I hope that the final chapter can be as delightful as writing the rest of this has been. I'll be working on it, but it might be a bit slow in coming as I'm super busy over the next couple of weeks. But I promise there will be a final wrap up!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies on how long it's been since I posted the previous chapter. My intent was to finish this here and now with part five. But, alas...
> 
> I should save this gif for if I ever finish this fucking story, but instead I share it as an illustration of what my beta does to me when I tell her I can't quite wrap it up...yet _again_. I'm saying 6/6 now, but I've been saying that for months now, so what do I know?
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Tif%20and%20Pat%20get%20a%205_zpstgamhv7s.gif.html)  
> 

"What changed your mind?"

"Huh?"

He hasn't had the balls to tell Steven that he attempted an _I love you_ the night before only to blow the whole thing. If he's smart, he'll just slouch away, forget what little paradise he found with her, and let her believe he doesn't know the difference between fact and fiction. 

(The truth is, Norman and Skype had always been a bad idea. The good news is he didn't drunk dial her afterwards. It probably helped that he drank so much he passed out, and this morning he feels like absolute shit.)

He's on set, and Steven's stretched out on the sidewalk in front of the house their filming in today, and he finds himself asking a question he doesn't need the answer to. "About me and Em? What changed your mind?"

Steven sits up from his prone position on the sidewalk, squinting an eye at the sun just over Norman's shoulder. He still says nothing.

"Remember how you were all against me coming on to her, when we first met? Why now are you pushing for this? Playin' cupid?"

Steven's lips quirk, and he just shakes his head as he leans forward, stretching his back as he wraps his hands around his feet. Bowing his head down to his knees, he says distinctly, "Because you got over the _just wanna fuck her_ phase. I'm not sure when it happened, but she got inside your head, you know, not just inside your dick. Probably last year, when y'all had those scenes just the two of you, but it shifted. You changed. And Emily's the brass ring, Norm. I mean, if any guy wanted to marry up, all he'd have to do is hook up with her. Plus," he adds as he sits back upright. "She's not the naive little thing I took her for at first. She's been around a bit, knows something about men like you. I figured she could handle you, whatever way it went." He stands up slowly, giving Norman a sly smile. "She might even school you a bit. Thought it might be good for you."

The director calls for Steven then, who jogs away to the far side of the house for his first scene. Norman smokes a cigarette, maybe two (maybe three) while contemplating just how she might handle him.

Boot his ass to Timbuktu, or give him another chance?

 

 

"When does your flight leave?" she asks, climbing back into bed after having left it for a bottle of water from the minibar.

He sits up slightly, rearranging the pillow behind him for better support. "Not 'til Tuesday morning."

Her eyes get wide. "Really? We have a whole 'nother day together?"

"When I booked the flight, things were going well." He gives her a wink and she reaches over to pinch his side as she settles in next to him.

She takes a sip of her water and then offers it to him. She has a non-smoking room, and he's got to admit he's getting a bit fidgety because of it. He takes the water from her and says, "We actually need to go back to the studio."

Though her eyes are sliding down his bare chest, at his pronouncement they glide curiously back to his face. "Why?"

"Because my car, and my luggage, are there." He hands the bottle back to her.

She starts giggling. "Oh, no," she murmurs as she presses the plastic container to her lips. A dribble of water runs down her chin as she laughs in embarrassment.

He just watches her, wondering if he could even pinpoint the moment when he fell in love with her. If he could, it would probably have something to do with those two words falling from her lips.

 

 

Season Four is a wrap, as they say, and the wrap party always borders on debauchery, at least for some of them. Norman gives Emily (and everyone) little gifts, things he's collected along the journey of the entire season, but he knows he's scored big when she unwraps the turtle shell.

It's not just the look of overwhelmed gratitude on her face, it's this little sound that falls out of her mouth, words that shape her lips into _oh no_ , something he's seen her do a time or two; when what she said came out funny, or maybe what she meant is too fucking apparent in what she said when she wasn't trying to be obvious.

The truth is, she wants him, and she's wanted him for a long time, and it had only gotten more intense between them this season as their characters had to go on their own journey together.

He's almost kissed her a dozen times. During rehearsals, after episodes wrapped, when she was just sitting still looking good enough to eat, completely oblivious to his desire for her.

It would be so much easier to just want her and know it would never happen; discerning that she wanted it, too, is fucking torture.

(He was a douchebag who sometimes thought about this beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed waif while he pounded himself into a different willing body.)

He hated himself for it, so he started storing up those moments, the ones when he wanted her so badly he could barely restrain himself, for times alone in his trailer. When Cecelia was out of town. Or on nights when he told her he was just too tired to see her. His shower had housed many dreams about Emily Kinney, and he felt as lame as teenage boys who jacked off under hot, flowing water just because they couldn't help it.

If there was a way _to_ help it, he was pretty sure he just didn't want to; for one thing, he couldn't get away from her. He worked with her and that was his job, dammit, whether he liked it or not.

(He likes it.)

He also likes thinking about her big doe eyes looking up at him while he fucks her mouth, and he loves the sound of his name falling from her lips while he makes her come.

(They are pretty elaborate fantasies.)

But tonight, the way she's looking at him, and the amount of alcohol he's seen her ingest...it would be so easy. And then it would mean nothing.

And that's the worst part. That fucking turtle shell stands as a testament against him when it comes to meaninglessness.

(At some point all her thoughts began to matter to him, and all her feelings, and all the things that automatically come when one lets oneself indulge in thoughts that weren't his right. Funny how it was all back-ass-wards, and now he was caught in some kind of trap that had no escape hatch.)

She hugs him and wipes at her eyes and everyone makes toasts to each other, and then they eat food. Hours go by, and slowly people start to trickle out of the restaurant, but the both of them linger.

When it reduces down to just the two of them, Emily scoots closer to him in the big round booth they're sitting in, and asks in a low voice, "How will it happen?"

He turns his head slightly to look at her. "What?"

"You know," she says, her eyes bright with beer and shots of bourbon. "Beth and Daryl."

Literally, _oh no_ goes though his head and he fucking ignores it. Because who could look at her face and not walk right into the fantasy?

"He'll find her," he says gruffly. "After Terminus, he'll find her, and she'll be all badass, like, _thanks for finally showing up, but I rescued myself, loser._ And he'll think she's the fucking sexiest thing he's ever seen, and he'll find a place for them, a safe place. And he'll take her there...."

"And they'll fuck all night long, right?" She rests her elbows on the table and cradles her own cheek, just gazing at him. "Will they show it, though? Or will it just be implied?"

 _They better fucking show it,_ he thinks, shifting uncomfortably next to her. He's hard just imagining words on a page, like [Daryl kisses Beth] or [Beth pushes Daryl's vest from his shoulders]. "I don't know," he says, and he realizes he's practically whispering, and she's so close, and...

"Would you two like anything else?" the waitress asks, interrupting them. She's holding a coffee pot in her hand, and Norman glances at his watch. It's close to midnight.

He pushes two cups towards her, unsure if they're his and Emily's, or not. It doesn't matter, they need coffee, and the illusion of sobriety.

"Please," he says.

After the woman walks away, Emily thanks him for the cup and scoots away just a little. It's not much, but it's enough for him to know she's not that drunk.

(Thank God.)

(Right?)

"Beth will say _I love you_ first," Emily says as she stirs a little sugar into her cup.

It brings him back to the point (fantasy) at hand. "Why do you say that?" 

"Oh, c'mon. Does Daryl even know what those feelings he's feeling are? I mean, he couldn't even say she's what changed his mind."

"Maybe he'll get bolder, you know, after whatever's gonna happen to him. Thinking he lost her forever might make him...more verbose."

She laughs, soft, the wisp of it rolling over him gently. "Nope, it will be Beth," she says decidedly. "She'll have to make the first move every time. About _everything_. Even in his secret rendezvous place, she'll have to kiss him first. She'll have to..." She stops then, and there's suddenly even more sobriety in the air than there had been a few moments before. Her eyes bounce to him and away again before she picks up her coffee cup. She brings it to her mouth and blows on it.

"Seriously?" he asks, looking at her. He knows she doesn't mean to be, but she's such a fucking tease, he's gonna have blue balls by the time he walks out of this joint.

She looks over at him, and nods her head. "Norman. He wouldn't even say _YOU_. _You are the reason I changed my mind._ He was _incapable_ of spitting it out. So yes, Beth is going to lead, on _everything._ "

She has no idea that they are having two different conversations right now; or does she?

"I should get home," he says abruptly. There's no good way to end this anyway, so he better get out while he's still willing to run for his fucking life. 

Emily pulls her phone out of her pocket. "Oh, lord," she moans. "I had no idea it was this late! I have a flight at 8!"

They both slide out of the booth and as she unsteadily gets her feet under her, Norman grabs her elbow. "Back to New York already?" he asks.

She smiles. "Oh, yeah. Gotta get back up there and get in the studio."

Once they're outside on the street and he hails a cab for her, he remembers that boyfriend she's got up north, too, and he has a split second of anger shoot through him.

It's ludicrous, but lightning striking always is.

She turns into him, hugging him tightly, her head burrowed into his chest below his chin, her hands jammed together into the small of his back. "Love you, Norman," she whispers. She smiles as she pulls away. 

She's inside the cab before he can respond. Before his brain has caught up enough to realize she just pulled a fast one of sorts on him.

Fuck Beth Greene and her emotional transparency.

 

 

She's watching him with eyes that stoke a never-ending fire, but he's still surprised when she places her hand on his hip, holding him in place as she slides a leg up over his. She curls her calf around him, just below his ass cheek.

(They are supposed to be getting up to go get the car, but it's not really working out, so far.)

She takes his cock in her palm, fisting him smoothly a couple of times so that he's that much more on edge. Her thumb hovers at _that_ spot on the underside and he grits his teeth in pleasure-agony as she puts the faintest amount of pressure there. Then she shifts her hips forward and positions him so that the swollen head is inside her, but only just.

Earlier he'd been hounding her about pregnancy scares, but her confidence that she couldn't possibly be pregnant, as well as the _insane_ pleasure of being inside her bare has led him to another moment where he can't believe how stupid and reckless he's being; at the same time he can't get over how fucking _good_ it is and he's so ready to blow his load that he presses his hand into the dip at the top of her ass to bring them in tighter, so he can rock into her better, so he can get _in deeper_ before he loses his fucking mind. She resists, so he moves slightly to push her over on to her back so he can thrust all the way in, but she doesn't give in to that, either.

She doesn't say anything; her eyes communicate loud and clear that she's running this one, and he's just gonna have to suffer in whatever way she wants to punish (pleasure) him.

So he tells her, straight up, while panting, "I need t'get in deeper. This's fucking killing me."

But the smirk on her lips just twists a little more and she squeezes her inner muscles while hiking her leg a little higher so it slides up along on his, towards his hip. He might dip into her a minute amount more, only enough to make sweat pop out across his entire body.

"Em..." he groans, and he can't help the shallow thrusting that's happening; it's completely involuntary, but his movement is so restricted with them both lying on their sides that he teeters on the edge, unable to quite get there without a full, deep rhythm. 

She laughs breathlessly, the hand that had tucked him inside her now braced on his shoulder, keeping his body a certain distance away. "You feel fucking huge like this," she whispers, and Norman's eyes roll back in his head. She _will_ kill him, and he doesn't even care. The heavy hammering of his heart is both clinical and chronic, the result of Emily Kinney physically and mentally, her complete ownership of him from brains to balls and back again.

 _Because he will fucking die if he can't come inside her this instant, and if he does come, he'll probably still die_ , and chanting, "Baby, baby, baby, please, please, _please_ ," is what finally causes her to be generous. She eases back just a little, the angle barely changing at all, but suddenly he can shift forward, just enough, and then his whole body wigs out, the tremors racing from the center of his being through every nerve ending. He shouts some unintelligible gibberish and comes and comes and _comes_ , the waves breaking over him in a never-ending array of white hotness and sheets of colors.

He is vaguely aware of the way she pushes him over on to his back so that she slides all the way down on him, and something about it must be hella hot for her, because she shrieks his name and buries her face in his throat.

He feels her orgasm radiate out through her whole body as she's draped over him.

(Later, when he can make words again, he will pontificate about the advantages of having sex with someone you love, because he's never had this experience, and there is a reason why it's so much better.)

 

 

After he reads the script for 4x12, he gets obsessed with the song rotation on his iPod. He tweets about it. He takes Daryl to a place he's never been before.

Because that's what's in the script. 

He knows what a fucking liar he is when they shoot Em's sides of the porch scene. He's not the only one crying his eyes out, so that makes him feel better, but he knows the truth.

(He avoids the truth. What the hell is happening here? He can't handle how good she is, that's all.)

The final scene they shoot is the fire, for obvious reasons. Em is giddy, though, the drunken courage of Beth Greene flowing through her like life blood.

She's beautiful. She has so much ahead of her. He wants to tell her that where she's going, it's something that he's only found here. She's gonna have many _Walking Dead_ experiences, because she's already so much more than anyone understands. She'll be the sneak-attack break-out star. She'll go on to things when this show is over that will surpass anything that she's done here, and all her work here has been stellar. 

"You probably don't remember this," she says as they're driving back from location. "But last season, when Daryl goes off with Merle, Beth had this scene with Carol. Beth was mad at Daryl for leaving, and I remember when we shot it, I got excited because it was this awareness that Beth had of Daryl, of what Daryl meant to the group. I sorta thought it might go somewhere, that when Daryl turned back up, he and Beth might have a confrontation. So, you know, I used that, through this whole thing. Like, all the things Beth Greene ever wanted to say to Daryl Dixon, because she loves him, and she knows him, but at the same time she _doesn't_ know him, not as well as she thinks she does. You know, because of Daryl being this different person _now_. Who he is now, that's who he's always been in her mind."

She takes a breath, and a nervous giggle floats through the car. They're in the backseat and the driver up front has the radio on, not at all concerned with them. "Sorry, that was all Beth Greene Emotional Vomit."

Norman puts his hand on her knee, squeezing it reassuringly. "That's why you're so good, because you give it all the history. Beth _lives_ , even all the things we haven't actually seen her live, she's lived it, so it shows. And, 'course I remember that. I hoped it would lead to something. You know I've always wanted scenes with you." He takes a little breath. He's sort of kept his adulation to himself, but right now, he can't seem to stop the words rolling out of his mouth, either. "This has been an amazing experience."

(He's got, like, 200 photos of her on his phone that she doesn't even know he took.) 

"Oh, shush. You get to act with _everyone_."

"Except you. And I finally got what I wanted. And I didn't even ask for it. The Universe just gave it to me. Fucking lucky bastard," he mutters self-deprecatingly. 

She puts her hand over his. "That's why I loved this so much--because now Beth sees Daryl in a different light; she really knows him, now, not just the hero he is, but she sees how far he's come. It makes her realize how they are more alike than they are different; it makes her bonded to him in a sweeter way, you know? Like, she's not the only one who was still growing up through all this."

It's the middle of the fucking night; it's dark as they drive back into the city limits, but the intimacy from their week of shooting just the two of them, and the quiet in the back seat seems thick and cozy, like a blanket draped over them. When Em's fingers slide through his, it feels as natural as everything else they've spent time doing, all through rehearsals and final shoots. "They're gonna fall in love," he says softly.

"I hope so," she replies, her tone reverential.

(When he looks back, he knows it was here. He loved her right then.)

 

 

"I'm just gonna call the concierge and we can have someone go get the car!"

She lunges for the phone, and he throws himself after her, keeping her from grabbing it. "How lame am I that I would pay someone to do that?" he demands. She's giggling, so he doesn't even think she heard him until--

"Norman! What is even the point of being a famous television star if you can't abuse your power once in a while!? And this is important! I don't want to get dressed, and I don't want you to get dressed. We both need showers, because we smell like sex. So what's worse, slinking through this hotel to go get your fucking car and having a paparazzi catch us, or paying some guy whose job it is to do favors for people like you?"

She's lying beneath him, mostly because she hadn't really been trying to get away, but somehow manages to look ferocious, her blue eyes snapping and her hair a wild cloud around her head. 

( _I'm not stayin' in this suck-ass camp!_ )

(He's not in love with Beth Greene, but the parts of Emily that _are_ Beth Greene? He's fucking crazy about that.)

"Well, when you put it that way..." he mutters. He drops his head down and starts kissing her neck, because what else should he be doing right now?

(He calls the concierge about twenty minutes later while Emily smiles smugly.)

 

 

"This place is fucking nuts," Norman mutters under his breath, his hand at the small of her back. She's looking around in awe, but happily letting him guide her because she's never been to Comic Con before.

She doesn't look terrified by the melee, though. Which he supposes is the difference between her and him. He's glad to have her to focus on so he doesn't have to think about _all the people_. 

(There are so many fucking people!)

They find their way backstage, to the place where they are supposed to wait for their names to be called. That's when she turns to look at him. "Oh, honey," she coos, reading him all too well. She slides her arm around his waist and hugs herself against him. "They're all here because they love you!"

He would cut her a look of derision, but her head is tucked under his chin, and he'd have to let go of her to do that. Instead he squeezes his arm around her hard and mutters, "That's _exactly_ why I'm freaked out."

Celebrity is this thing he just can't reconcile acting with, exactly. He gets it, of course, and in reality, he's been doing this for a number of years with only cult-fandom followers; having a mainstream audience is, well, the dream of every working actor, and to be honest, the scariest fucking thing he's ever experienced.

(Fan is short for _fanatic_ , you know.)

Emily takes it all in stride, though, as though she were born to do this, even though later, when they are side-by-side at their signing booth, she is delightfully shy with the strangers who approach them as if they are cousins at a family reunion.

She comes off as more coy than awkward, though, which is what he is: the King of Awkward. She doesn't seem to notice that, however. She leans in to take photos with him (disregarding all the ones he took of her and them at panel) as people ask for it, and her hands are all over him. Across his shoulders and down his back, squeezing his leg under the table and clutching at his elbow as she nods her head towards some fan wearing a homemade set of Angel Wings.

It's during all this that he realizes, whatever they've got between them, it's comfortable like this. When he'd said goodbye to her for the break, he'd been painfully aware that his interest in her went far beyond professional.

It went far beyond personal, even. He wanted Emily like he wanted air; it needed to be on him, in him, around him, the very thing that kept him upright. 

At Comic Con, he sees the value of a friendship forged through so much, and the promise of chemistry that would pay off on-screen at some point down the line.

And really, the longing in his heart would be the best method acting he could offer whenever they got around to shooting the scene where Daryl sees Beth again for the first time.

Having Emily in some way was better than nothing, and perhaps the truth is, this way was even better--no chance of messing it up. Because if he's being honest, his track record is dodgy at best, as Andy would say.

(That night, alone in his hotel room, he thumbs through the pics of her on his phone. Prettiest fucking girl he's ever seen in real life. And she was quite possibly his best friend. It could be way worse than that, for sure.)

 

 

"'Member that lady, the one who came up to us at Comic Con?" Norman asks.

Emily is sitting up, turned towards him, in their mess of a bed, her hair up in a haphazard ponytail atop her head. She's eating a bowl of fruit, because it's somewhere around noon on Monday and breakfast is something she doesn't believe in skipping. She looks up from her dish to where he's lying stretched out next to her and squints an eye. "Could you be more specific?" she asks. "I think we met, like, a million people at Comic Con."

He chuckles, then slides his hand up her thigh, under the hem of her robe. "The one who asked if we thought Beth and Daryl were both virgins?"

As his fingers skim across her skin and tuck into the crease of her leg, she squirms a little. She's got her legs crossed Indian-style with one elbow resting on her knee, and they should be done, but they aren't. (He's sure they've reached a statute of limitations on orgasms by now.) She put the robe on because she's cold if she isn't tucked beneath his body, but cutting him off like that, taking all her smooth skin away made him miss her desperately, even though she's right next to him.

"Oh, _gawd!_ Yes. She was hilarious, right?"

"You were the hilarious one," Norman says, watching her carefully as she sets her bowl aside. "You were adamant. _NO!_ Like it would be impossible for Beth to be a virgin."

She arches an eyebrow at him. "It's the end of the world, Norman. Beth's no dummy. She did it, with Zach at least. Probably with Jimmy, too."

"The little slut," Norman murmurs, just as his thumb slides down the curve of her thigh towards her pussy.

She gives him a little glare, as though she's taking his remark seriously, but as he brushes the pad of his finger right where he'd been aiming for she arches into him just slightly. Her breathless reply of _shut up_ coalesces into a moan.

(No 45-year-old man should be able to get hard as quickly as she does it for him.)

He just rubs her though, his thumb brushing persistently, lightly, then dipping down just a bit, gathering moisture to make it all blur into scents and sensations; he doesn't even need her hands on him, her eyes are enough.

"You make me fucking crazy," he whispers.

She moves then, her hand pushing the lapels of her robe aside so she can grab his wrist. She arches back just a little, presses his hand downward which causes his thumb to slide inside her, and uses his hand to get herself off.

It's a matter of moments, really, because she knows exactly what she needs, but he also crooks his thumb just when her hips surge forward the hardest. She gasps his name as she gushes all over his hand.

Even if he thought there was something more for him beyond this, he knows now, there isn't. Nothing will ever compare to Emily, vulnerable and bare, giving everything she has to him.

He'd be a fool to even look anywhere else.

She reaches out and takes his cock in her hand. With two strokes and a command of "Come," he's spurting all over the place. It happens so fast, he can't quite catch his breath, but as Em slips the robe from her body to clean up the mess, she says, "Daryl is totally a virgin, though. I believe that."

The fact that she even remembers what they were talking about lets him know that this is all her show, every last bit of it. 

(His plans include keeping a starring role for himself.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And...finally:  
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily002_zps8ebf1f08.jpg.html)
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily004_zps74e8955b.jpg.html)
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/americanoutlaw/media/Walking%20Dead/Normily009_zps9e7ad511.jpg.html)

"You like Norman, don't you?"

Emily looks up from the script she'd buried her head in after Norman walked away. He's back to flirting rather audaciously with her, which means he heard she's single again. They go through patterns, and this is the part that she enjoys the most, though admittedly it leaves her frustrated in a way that most would call unhealthy. Now, her television father stands just inside the sliding door of Cell Block C, watching her. She glances around and sees that they're alone, since the shot that's coming up is in Block B.

She squints at Scott because he's not one to pry, though she's easily shared everything about her life with him as if Hershel and Beth were not fictional at all. She shrugs one shoulder and gives him her best _I don't know what you're talking about_ wide-eyed face. 

She opens her mouth to say some off-putting thing but Scott holds up a single finger, in an _uh-huh_ gesture. "I'm only saying this once, so listen up, Emmy. He's a good man. But he's a boy when it comes to matters of the heart. So be very, very careful." 

It was one of those in-between times for her, when she wasn't dating anyone and her crush on Norman had become the normal default position for her when there was no one else to distract her.

What Scott says, however, is exactly the warning deep inside her own heart. Loving Norman is easy; getting him to love her back probably wouldn't be all that hard either. Getting him to stay, to see it through, to build something was an entirely different thing.

(And then having to work with him once it was over? Ugh, just thinking about that is enough to cure her of any meandering thoughts.)

"Norman's just a friend, Scott. No delusions here," she says softly.

Scott's eyes crinkle and her gives her a gentle, silent, mouth-pursing reprimand. Then he asks, "You want to rehearse this scene?"

She quickly agrees, and the awkward topic remains unexplored.

 

 

She's toweling the excess moisture from her hair when he walks into the bathroom. His eyes meet hers over her shoulder in the mirror, and she just shakes her head at him. "We've had too much sex," she announces.

He's fully clothed, having gone downstairs to get his overnight bag from the car, and the faint smell of cigarettes accompanies him over the threshold.

She's naked, but to his credit, his eyes never leave hers as he takes the towel from her hands. "There's no such thing as too much sex," he murmurs. Using one hand, he pulls her hair back so it's down her back, and then he gently massages the towel over it. 

Emily holds his stare, but her nipples betray her completely. Since he never wavers his gaze, he can't know that. She is certain he knows it, anyway, because she can feel everything inside her softening in anticipation. He can probably smell her getting wet for him. 

(He is undoubtedly getting hard; they are a perfect match.)

"You know what you were saying earlier, about it not being like this for you before?" she asks.

(She doesn't really think they've had too much sex, but she thinks they might be so far down the love rabbit hole that separating is going to make her physically sick.)

"Yeah," he replies, satisfied that her hair no longer dripping. He tosses the towel aside and steps closer to her; she can feel the heat of him against her back.

She doesn't mean for it to happen, but suddenly tears flood her eyes. "It's all sort of overwhelming, isn't it?" The last word comes out like a little squeak and she shakes her head in protest at her own weakness. "I don't want to be away from you," she confesses.

Norman wraps his arms around her, sliding his head down so that his chin fits into the little scoop of her clavicle; his beard tickles her skin. "We'll work it out, somehow, baby." He inclines his head slightly to press his lips to her neck. "I don't think I'll ever truly be without you again. Not now. You're gonna be with me wherever I go, from now on. You're the deepest part of me, Em. The _best_ part. The only part that matters."

She reaches up to slip her hand into his hair, holding him against her. "I'm so in love with you," she says tearfully, the smile that stretches across her face showing the joy it brings her, even if she's weepy about it.

She watches as his eyes move in the mirror; from her face they travel downward, and his hands slide up her body, cupping her breasts. His thumbs strum over her hardened nipples, and she takes a little gasping breath as he pulls her back, flush against him. "I'm so in love with you, too. We got this. Nothing to worry about, nothing to be scared of. Before yesterday, all I knew was fear--fear I'd messed it up so bad we'd never recover; fear that you didn't love me as much, if at all, like I love you; fear that everything I've ever been can't be the guy that fits here, with you. And all of that was wrong. Every bit of it." His hands ease down, skimming her belly before curving out to her hips. "Now I'm working with the truth, the whole truth. And that's this: we _are_. Who knows what we'll become, but we'll become it together. That's a promise."

Emily watches his hands as they continue downward, spreading out across the tops of her thighs; his fingers are a beautiful brown contrast with the white skin of her legs, from days filming outside in the Georgia sun. His words make the sensation of his touch that much more powerful, because she feels it in a way she never has before, in any other relationship she's ever been in.

He slips a hand between her legs, rubbing gently where she's already wet for him. She throws her head back against his shoulder in reaction, surprised that she be _there_ so fast given their activities for the last 24 hours. 

"Norman..." she gasps just as he says, "Look at yourself." She forces her chin back down slightly so she can watch what he's doing. The glide of his fingers inside her is tight with her legs close together, but when his other hand slides back up to cup her breast, it takes everything in her to keep her eyes open. 

"You are the most beautiful fuckin' thing I've ever seen in my life," he whispers. A thumb and forefinger pinch her nipple and he twists his other hand between her legs just so, and a sound of need erupts from Emily's throat, ferocious and startling. 

She grabs his wrist, stopping the movement, dislodging his fingers from inside her. "Fuck me," she pants, and she never dreamed in a million years that saying those words could ever be the most romantic thing she's ever felt.

Everything with Norman is new and different, and upside down and perfect. She wants all of it, every moment with him, always.

She feels the shift of urgency from her to him; his eyes flare, and his body coils more tightly behind her, but he still takes his time. Lifting his wet fingers to her lips, he rubs her there the way he had her clit seconds before and then he shuffles them both forward so that there is no space between them and the mirror. She can no longer see what is happening, but when he yanks his jeans open, she braces her hands against the moist glass.

"Just you and me," she breathes out. There is still a slight hesitation from him, and she knows he wonders if he should put on a condom even though she hasn't let him wear one any of the times he's been inside her since they reunited. "Do it, Norman," she says in those short seconds, and then he's there, shoved to the hilt inside her. It's like the first time they made love, only completely different. His hand covers hers on the mirror and she says it again, "Fuck me."

So he does. Emily gasps his name again when she hits the peak, and he follows her a moment later.

When he comes, it flows through her and out of her, very much like the man himself. She'll try, but she'll never fully contain everything he is to her.

He says the Lord's name like she's both his salvation and his damnation, and Emily realizes: this is what love is. The end of everything and the beginning of anything. From now on, the possibility of devastation will always be right there. 

She wouldn't have it any other way.

 

 

He hasn't spent this much time naked...since the last time he and Emily had been together. There's this tinge of desperation in their touches now, and he's aware of it as the thing that was always missing for him before. 

There is a difference between missing someone and not being whole without a particular person by your side. Not just anyone can fill that space; he's not sure when it fully morphed into the shape of Emily, but the important part is it's not freaking him out, and she feels the same way.

The word _together_ has never had the same meaning with anyone else.

Right now, he's half asleep in the bed because she wore him out again, but his eyes blink open when she says, "Oh, my god."

"What?" he asks, turning his head on the pillow to see that she's curled towards him with her phone in her hand.

"People. They're freaking out. Look." She puts the phone in front of his face. There are five angry tweets about Beth Greene that he can read and then her finger moves over the screen to scroll it down some.

Nobody's happy that Beth Greene is dead.

His lips quirk. He'd had a feeling it wouldn't be well-received considering all the hits he got after their episodes in season four. But it still tickles him in a way he couldn't have guessed. He takes the phone from her hand. "This one says, _We didn't even get a Bethyl reunion. WTF is that? Rick got to almost hug her, but not Daryl? What was the fucking point?!?_ Jesus. Yeah, they're pissed, alright. Almost as pissed as I was when I found out." She giggles a little and snuggles into him as he hands the phone back. 

"I'm glad they love her so much," Em says, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. He feels a little wetness from her tears, so he puts a hand against her cheek. "I'm okay," she whispers. "I just miss Beth." He makes a conciliatory sound in his throat. "It's hard to let her go. I was a mess on the show last night, Norman. I mean, if I get that choked up this many months later? When is it gonna get easier?"

"I don't know, babe. Time wounds all heels?" he offers and she laughs again, making him feel like he's doing his job. This is the role of the boyfriend: he can't take away the pain, but he can find ways around it.

She rolls over and tosses her phone on to the bedside table. When she rolls back, she lays her head on his shoulder again and yawns. "I'm also glad there's a big group of people who wanted to see us together," she says softly. "I mean, Beth and Daryl. And it sucks. I know!" Her voice raises with each word. "I've watched TV! I shipped Stabler & Benson so hard, and then he left the show!"

Norman starts laughing, and then flips them so he's looking down into her indignant face. "You are too cute," he says, grinning helplessly at her. She makes him feel joy like a kid, enormous and infinite, but at the same time he's never wanted to be more of a man when he's with her. He wants to be the place she can come to with her small tears and her big breakdowns. He wants to be the one she needs more than anyone else.

She forces her lips into a pout, which should be ridiculous, but instead it makes his dick twitch just a bit. "Fine, I'll say it. I wanted Bethyl, too. I wanted to get paid to make out with you."

He clicks his tongue, and shakes his head. "Now, you're doin' it for free. Just givin' it away," he teases. He bounces his lips off hers, not really trying to kiss her. 

She narrows her eyes slightly. "It's not free," she declares. "It's costing you, every single minute."

"How's that?" he asks. 

"Every time you kiss me, every time you _fuck_ me, you're giving me just that much more of you. By the time you leave here tomorrow mornin' there isn't gonna be any Norman and Emily anymore. There's just gonna be Normily."

"What?" he chokes on laughter this time because the impish expression on her face is just too much for him to take. "Are you name squishing us?" he chortles.

"The Internet so deems it," she says, waving an invisible magic wand next to his ear. "If they can't have Bethyl, they shall have Normily."

Suddenly, an idea sparks in his mind. "Oh, Em. That's what we gotta do. That's what _will_ do! We'll give them the reunion they never got!"

 

 

The next morning, he's waiting for her to come out of the bathroom when she groans his name. 

"What?" he asks through the door.

"Grab my purse, would you?" she shouts. "Perfect timing," she mutters grumpily when he opens the door. She's sitting on the toilet, but manages to give him a very annoyed look, distracting him for a moment from the awkwardness of this exchange. "You'll be happy to know my period just arrived." She grabs her bag as he extends it towards her. "Now, please leave. It's bad enough you're seeing me sitting on a toilet, you're not gonna watch me put in a tampon."

"Oh, my god, no!" he blurts and she tilts her head, her expression growing even more irritated. "Sorry, babe, but no guy in his right mind wants to think about that!"

He shuts the door quickly and paces in the outer room until she emerges a few minutes later, looking a little less irritated, but maybe just a touch embarrassed. He pulls her into a hug, pressing his lips to her cheek. "I am glad there's no baby...yet."

The fact that her smile doesn't make him hyperventilate is the final nail in the coffin. Done, the end.

Normily, indeed.

 

 

Emily flies from LA to New York without a single person noticing _hey, you're the girl from The Walking Dead!_ She is very relieved, and credits the giant sunglasses she's been wearing as a good mask, thanks to Norman's suggestion. As she's waiting for her luggage, she checks her messages and sees that her manager left her a voicemail. She listens to it as she eyes several suitcases that look like hers but are missing the _I <3 Zombies_ sticker she adhered to it.

The message confirms that she is not required to do a solo Q&A session at either of the Walker Stalker Cons she's going to this weekend. It's been almost two weeks since her tearful performance on _The Talking Dead_ , and she really doesn't want to relive it. She's not sure if questions like _where did you want to see Beth's story go?_ from people standing right in front of her will make her cry, but she's not really willing to find out.

Instead, she's learning to use these things to her advantage. Of course, she's getting paid to be there, like always, but now that she's off the show, cultivating her fanbase is the point of going. Well, that, and seeing all of her friends.

And her boyfriend, of course. 

Because the Q&A for New York is cancelled, she doesn't even have to go to that one; which is fine, better actually. She and Norman have plans for dinner with Lauren and Scott. It was also why she was able to fly in Saturday, and not worry about getting there by a specific time, though there had been no delays at all.

She has time to go home and drop her stuff off, but the last text on her phone from Norman indicated the restaurant downtown and the time as being a bit earlier than she planned. All the same, she's dying to see him; part of her wishes she wasn't seeing him first with their friends, friends who would be the first to see them together as a couple.

She knows neither Scott nor Lauren would have anything negative to say, but the preciousness of all of it has been hers for the last two weeks, and hers alone. She hadn't even told her family that she was head over heels in love with her former co-star simply because once she shares it, it won't be just theirs anymore.

Norman had been similarly hesitant about "going public" even with their friends, but as they discussed it, they knew neither of them could pull off "just friends" if they were going to be together after two weeks of separation. 

(Emily thought that dinner at a fancy sushi restaurant was likely to be akin to a Chinese Torture Test because all she was gonna want to do when she saw him was get him naked.)

To punish him for this stupid dinner idea, she dresses up. A belly shirt and dress pants that fit just right, and she curls her hair so that it hangs over her right shoulder perfectly. He had mentioned that when her hair was perfect like that, all he could think about was messing it up, so as she assesses herself in the mirror right before she leaves, she winks at herself and mutters, "Serves him right."

She gets to the restaurant ahead of them, but only by a few minutes. She waits in the foyer, and when they walk in, altogether, it's Lauren who spots her first. "Oh, my god, girl. Look at you! I've missed you so much." She grabs her and lifts Emily clean off the floor, causing her to squeal with delight.

Scott wraps her up in an equally warm embrace, though he doesn't pick her up. "Emmy, so good to see you," he says softly, pressing his lips to her forehead.

Norman hangs back, giving them room, and looking like his normal awkward self, but once Scott steps aside, the space between them seems to evaporate, and Emily's not even sure if she moves at all, but then she's in his arms, and that's what counts. 

He doesn't kiss her, though, and she doesn't try to kiss him.

(She can't help it, there is a little bit of Beth, Daryl, Hershel and Maggie filling up this space right here, and she feels tears prick her eyes all over again. She's so glad she's not doing the Q&A in New Jersey tomorrow, either.)

They don't actually say anything, and Emily isn't quite sure if Lauren and Scott know. She thinks they do, but it ends up not being important.

Norman leans into her much later, while they're sitting at the table. Scott and Lauren are momentarily distracted by the waitress asking them if they want more water when he says in a low voice that makes her tummy tremble, "Good enough to eat, baby girl."

She runs her hand up his leg several times after that until he speeds up the check process, and soon they are in a cab headed back to her apartment. A case of the giggles assaults her as they're sitting at a particularly long red light and he looks over at her with a warning eye-squint. "Woman, you are fuckin' killin' me," he murmurs. 

"This is just like the first time, remember?"

"I'm paying for the cab this time," he all but growls, and she laughs harder to realize his vanity had been injured by that move on her part. 

 

 

They don't stumble through the door to her apartment the way they had at his house in Georgia. The number one reason is because there are people in the hallway. Okay, the _only_ reason is because there are people in the hallway, and all three of them are friendly enough with Emily to say hello, call her by name, and as the last guy who sees them does a double take and nearly shouts, "Holy shit, Daryl Dixon!" Norman is willing his body to calm down in case he has to have a conversation with some fan who will take to the internet to call him an asshole if he says what he really wants to.

(Which is, _leave us the fuck alone. Please._ )

Emily puts her hands up, blocking the guy from approaching Norman, though Norman can't really tell if that was his intention or not. "Hey, Jason, remember. My friends who come to visit me aren't here to sign autographs or take pictures."

The guy gives her an incredulous look. "But, but…it's Daryl Dixon!"

Em's voice is sugar sweet when she says, "And you can tell everyone you met him, for free, in the hallway of your apartment building. But if you want pictures or an autograph, you gotta pay like everyone else. This isn't the time or place for it."

Jason is young from what Norman can tell, younger than Em, but he appears to be a good guy, too. "Can I just shake his hand?" he asks, and Em tosses a look over her shoulder. Norman nods and the guy moves forward, grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly while his other hand grasps Norman's elbow. "Pleasure to meet you," Jason says. "Thanks, Emmy," he says as he continues down the hall. 

"Nice to meet you, too," Norman manages to mutter, though he's not even sure the guy hears him, and he's positive he didn't care. Just another reason fame is weird and he has such a love/hate relationship with it.

"You comin'?" she asks, drawing his attention back to her. The door of her apartment is open now and she's got her head cocked just slightly, her Veronica Lake hair perfectly coiled on her right shoulder.

"Yes, please, ma'am," he drawls, winking at her as he slides over the threshold.

He's never been inside her New York apartment, but his first impression is that it feels very like her little Georgia condo. He doesn't have much time to dwell on that, however, because she presses her hands against his shoulders and shoves him back against the closed front door. He looks down at her as she sinks to her knees in front of him, and all the things he'd done to calm himself all evening no longer matter, nor would he have any power to make it otherwise.

She stares up at him as she tugs his belt free. She smirks just a touch as she tosses it behind her, and then she pulls the button and zipper down very carefully because he's at full attention and it is not an easy process at all. "Hi, honey," she coos, and her eyes leave his to look at his cock as she brings it out into the open. He would attempt to watch her blow him, but the sensation is too strong after their time apart. She is thorough and loving, her tongue teasing him to the point of madness, and then she swallows him down so quickly it hardly registers. He knows he must say every dirty word he knows, along with her name, and the whole world goes black.

When he opens his eyes, he's sitting on the floor with her next to him, and her hair is a fucking, glorious mess, but her face is perfect, her little pink tongue skating over her lips like a cat with some cream. 

His chest is still heaving, and in part, he wishes he had more memory of what just happened instead of just an explosion of emotion and the impression of pleasure so intense it left him mindless. But looking at her expression, seeing the glee in her eyes at bringing him, literally to his knees, reducing him in some measure to a pure animal, is its own turn on. Em, with power is arousing, is stupendous. Because she just wants to give everything to him. 

Because she loves him, so fucking much. He can see it every time he looks at her, and that makes him as breathless as the blow job.

"Sorry about your hair," he says, slipping his hand around her head to grip the back of her neck and pull her mouth to his.

"Liar," she whispers, her smile expanding against his lips as they kiss.

"Wanna see if you can mess mine up just as bad?" he asks, the essence of him sliding from her tongue to his.

Em pulls back, biting her bottom lip provocatively (though he doubts she realizes just how provoking it is), and nods eagerly.

They get to their feet, and he pulls her against him for another kiss. Undoing her pants is his first line of business, but then easing his hand down the front of them so he can feel how wet she is, is his next move. She cries out as his finger presses down on her swollen clitoris, but it quickly glides right past that into her pussy, which automatically clenches around him as she squeezes her thighs together. His big plan was to move her to the nearest flat surface, drag her pants off, and eat her out as quickly and completely as she had just brought him to orgasm, but that all melts away when he feels how ready she is for him.

Maneuvering them around, he presses her to the door, and just finger fucks her. Her cheeks grow red with each stroke, and he watches her face, easing back each time she gets close to coming. He adds a second finger and her hands fist in the front of his shirt, holding on for dear life. He keeps waiting for her to demand her release, but instead she rides each wave patiently, enjoying all of his movements, the sounds in her throat fighting for release also. Her mouth falls open in desperate little gasps and her hips buck up, forcing him deeper. The palm of his hand hits her clitoris in an Emily-made rhythm, and he lets her control it until she's gushing into the center of it. 

She pulls him to her, kissing his mouth again as she rocks herself to a second orgasm a few moments later. 

By then, he's ready for round two himself, which means shower sex. It's hours later before he gets around to eating her out. But with the heels of her feet against his back, and his hair clenched in her fingers, he can tell it was worth the wait.

 

 

Her breathing is really slow, and he knows he should let them both sleep. They don't have to go anywhere tomorrow until later in the day, and as it is, they will be sleeping a good part of the day away because the night has been filled with other activities. But he just has to ask her two things before he can rest.

"You think your dad will like me?" he murmurs.

She shifts against him, but pulls the arm he's already got around her just a bit tighter. He snuggles his face down into her neck. Spooning with Em is about as good as sex with Em; this is a new event for him, yet again. "My dad's gonna love you, don't worry," she replies, her voice not nearly as sleepy-sounding as he expects it to be. "Why are you thinking about my dad, right now, anyway?" she asks with a smile in her tone.

"Maybe 'cause your TV dad gave me an almost-lecture today at the Con."

Emily twists her head back towards him. "Scott? Really? What did he say?"

It started with Scott just noticing something different about him, which Norman had been surprised about. It's not that Em hasn't had that kind of impact on him, but he had no idea it would be visible to people who knew him well. "Just, you know, that _if you break her heart, I'll break your face_ kinda thing."

"Shut up. He did not say that."

"He didn't use those particular words. But he _did_ say that," Norman insists and she turns her body all the way over so she can look at him.

She bites her lip, but Norman is too depleted to have any physical reaction to it, which is good. They need to go to sleep. "What did _you_ say?" she asks.

Norman snorts. "I swore on my kid's grave that I'd treat you like gold. I told him the truth, that I'm mad about you, and that you, for whatever inexplicable reason feel the same way, and that I don't intend to squander it."

She giggles. "Squander?"

"It's a word," he snipes back, beginning to feel a bit picked upon.

"Scott loves you. And my dad will love you. And I love you. Okay?"

He gives a little head incline as a response. She smiles, bright and true. "I wanna ask you something?" he says.

"What?"

"Will you meet Mingus before you have to go back to L.A.?" 

They haven't spoken much about his son, though Em had always been sure to ask after him, especially on the weekends she knew Norman had him. He had told his son the week before about this special woman in his life, and asked him if he wanted to meet Em. Mingus had not been opposed to it, which in teenager speak had to mean he was somewhat interested. Besides, he knew who Emily was just from watching _The Walking Dead_. 

"I'd be honored to meet him," she replies softly. "You think he'll like me?"

Norman snorts again. "Only a damn fool wouldn't, and trust me, Mingus is no fool. He's a great kid. He will love you."

Emily kisses him, and then whispers, "I love you, so much."

He falls asleep with his return sentiment dying on his lips.

 

 

Emily makes her way inside the building, slipping between people in the crowd without anyone noticing her. It's only a matter of time, she knows, but it's with great hope that she looks around for Norman. If she can find him first before anyone shouts her name, it will allow this plan of theirs to go down somewhat cohesively.

She sees his table, one he's sharing with Scott and she makes her way around a group of women who are standing some ten feet back, waiting their turn. She says, "Excuse me?" and one of the women turns on her, a bit aggressively. Maybe they think she's cutting in line, which is kinda what she's doing, but then the woman sees her and gasps loudly, "Oh, my god!"

Emily puts a finger to her lips, and acts quickly. "I'm trying to surprise him," she says, pointing at Norman. "Help me get to that curtained area behind the table, would you?"

As soon as she pulls a partner into the plan, the sea of people parts like Moses is standing right there. She catches Norman's eye, and then walks around the back side. He jumps off his stool and moves quickly towards her and that's when she starts to run. As she leaps into his arms, she remembers that day, months ago now, at Walker Stalker in Atlanta. She had wanted to do this then, just for herself, just because she'd missed him so much. As the crowd around them notices what's happening, the ripple of sound grows to a cacophony and then evens out to a melodic, harmonized set of cheers. 

She realizes then, it was all for her, every bit of it, even the parts that destroyed her, even the parts that still make her cry. And she knows with absolute certainty that if Beth Greene hadn't died, she wouldn't be here now, her legs around Norman Reedus' waist and people catcalling in epic delight.

Who can have regrets when it works out better than you ever dreamed?

No one in their right mind, that's who. 

So she hugs him to her, laughing as he carries her out for the crowd to get a better look at them, and she sends a _thank you_ heavenward.

Her memories of _The Walking Dead_ will always be her most precious ones; the door that opened everything for her.

She'll probably still cry over it, too, only now it will be all that she has because of it, not all that she had to leave behind.

It's funny how life works out.

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody who has patiently waited for this day to come! I swear when I started this I had no idea I would lose my mojo to the point that I wondered if I would ever write ANYTHING again, much less write the ending for this story that I envisioned from the beginning. I'm so sorry it took so long.
> 
> I want to give you an explanation, if you care to read it, and it's this: when Beth Greene died, part of me died with her. (I'm not being melodramatic, stick with me.) My way of coping was to quit watching TWD and to fic, that is what I have always done in the past. But I couldn't seem to fic about Beth anymore, and Normily had always tormented me at some level, so I finally gave in and started this story. It was cathartic. It helped me move forward, or so I thought. 
> 
> But then something else happened--another show that I loved more than TWD, and another character I loved even more deeply than Beth Greene also departed from my fictional world. I think the combination of Beth's death and then the departure of this other character from this other show just about killed everything fannish inside me. All my creativity was stifled; in the past I used that creativity to get myself through hard times in fandom, but this time nothing could salve my broken heart. I stopped doing anything fannish, really, for the longest time. I would try to write this story and in short bursts I might get a few hundred words at a time, but I wasn't really accomplishing anything. Eventually those short bursts added up to something and I reached out to a lovely person here at AO3, Abelina, who had first reached out to me. She read what I had and gave me much needed feedback to know I was on the right track. I was able to move forward with some confidence, and that was a much needed boon.
> 
> This all happened mid-August, the awakening. I wrote some then, and then as fannish luck would have it, I fell into a rabbit hole of a *new* show. It was not a new-new show, but an old show that was on Netflix that I had never watched before. I devoured its five seasons in less than 30 days and began ficcing again in that old wonderful way--the one where you can't stop writing, where it just eats your brain until you get it out. But in the meantime, this old fic was still languishing.
> 
> In reality, though, that resuscitation is what has made all the difference. I was able to start writing this tonight, finish the three scenes I had left in my head to get out and it's DONE. Finally, almost a year later. I am relieved and happy. I hope you were satisfied by the ending, and one last time, for all the Bethylers and Normily fans out there: thank you. You are my people and I am so glad you exist. Thank YOU for these great memories. I'll take them with me. XOXOXO


End file.
